Northern California
by editor frog
Summary: Hotch in jeans. Reid on a Harley. The team takes a case that has them riding with old friends to stop a renegade biker gang, with grave consequences. Contains OC's
1. Chapter 1

**So I was going through old files and found this bit I started last summer. I hope you enjoy it.**

**NOTES: 1) Sorry, don't own 'em. Just the bikers, the Blue Devils, and of course, my Campbell Trio.**

**2) Please see my profile for the disclaimer on sign language and the Campbell people.**

**3) The events in this story take place between "Amplification" and "To Hell and Back." None of the events of S5 will be mentioned.**

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"Does Hotch even _own_ a pair of jeans?"

The strangled chuckle inside six throats was more than noticeable. "What's this about, Chase?" the lead agent asked, trying hard to ignore Emily's restrained giggles or Morgan's coughing that was covering for laughter.

"Big case here in Northern California. JJ, you remember that kidnapping case you threw us 'bout a month back?"

The liaison looked puzzled a moment. "I did?"

"Yeah." Soon the webcam screen split, and a photograph covered the right portion. "Gail Hathaway, age 23, went missing from a bar in Cervantos, a 'blink-and-you'll-miss-it' town just outside of Roseville, California about four months ago. Her boss said she'd been hassled by a group of bikers that are known for taking over the town every so often."

"Nasty group, these guys," another voice added, and soon the image of Oliver Lawrence's face joined his employer's. "They make Hell's Angels look like choir boys and girls, if you catch me."

"The name?" Hotch asked, all business.

"Call themselves 'The Revolution.' So far we've gotten a bit out of our contacts here in Cali, but nothing like a certain genius in cyberspace could get…"

"I'm on it," Garcia said, not bothering to stop to catch the nod of approval from her boss. "Names, records, incident reports…"

"Guy who runs it goes by 'Boss'," Oliver added. "Boss Salvador. Don't know if the whole name's contrived or not, but…"

"It's a start," Garcia said before vanishing into her lair.

"What about the girl?" Emily asked.

"We interviewed the mother and brother along with the other employees and friends," Chase replied. "From all accounts, she was saving to go to UC Berkley this semester. Quiet, nice girl who has a pretty face and got a lot of good tips on that account."

"No record, no priors, no complaints, save for the trouble with this group," Oliver added.

"What was the complaint?" Morgan wondered.

"Gail claimed the bikers were following her home, aggressively trying to pick her up, that sort of thing." Oliver shook his head. "Guys, the other employees aren't exactly ugly, if you catch me. There's something about this girl. I'm sure of it." Behind Oliver, the team could hear the sounds of other voices in the background along with the roar of an engine.

"What's that?" JJ asked.

"Oh, that's the guys," Chase said nonchalantly. "Locals here think they got a lead, couple of 'em going to check it out."

"In a tank?"

Chase chuckled. "Never been around a couple of Harleys, huh?"

"You're serious?!"

"Best way to track these people," Reid countered. "Travel like them."

"Precisely," Oliver said, giving Reid the thumbs-up. "Looks like we're heading out too, Chase."

"Damn. Not finished with the conference call," Chase complained. "Look, we'll try to catch up later. Might need some help on this one, so I say again—does Hotch own a pair of jeans?"

"Later, Chase, Oliver," Hotch replied stiffly before the connection was cut. He turned from the screen to see Reid nearly bursting with laughter and Morgan looking as though he'd swallowed an unwilling bullfrog. "All right, enough."

"Well?" Emily asked.

"Well what?"

"_Do_ you own a pair of jeans?"

-----

The bar was raucous and loud. Pool cues struck weighted balls as round after round was served up by a terrified wait staff. Smoke filled the large, crowded room, and conversations ranged from civil and regular to spirited and thunderous. At one table near the bar a young woman sat miserably, dressed in too-large jeans and an ill-fitting flannel shirt.

"Anything for you, hon?" the forty-plus waitress asked, trying her best to look as though large biker groups routinely took over her place of employment.

"N-no, thank you," the girl whispered, just as a large, leather-clad man boomed, "The lady wants a whiskey straight, with a vodka chaser."

The waitress scribbled down the order and hurried off to get it, casting a quick look in the girl's direction. _She can't be older than my Emma,_ the woman thought, her graying blonde hair wisping out of her long ponytail. _If anyone looks like she didn't belong…_

"The hell are you staring at, bitch?!" the tall, stout man shouted, his cries heard only vaguely over the other catcalls and shouts in the establishment. "I ordered drinks!"

Biting her lip, the woman scurried off to the kitchen. The girl's eyes followed her frame through the swinging doors and out of sight.

"It's a party, sweetheart," the stout man said, pulling the young woman close. "Celebration."

"Ce-celebrating what?" the girl squeaked. She tried to resist the man's advances, but he was simply too much for her small, thin frame to fight off.

"Good ride, and good sales," the man boasted. Then he stood on the round, splintering wood table, placing his hands around his lips like a bullhorn. "A toast," he called once he'd gotten the group's attention. "To a good sale, and a good ride!"

The shouts of agreement were deafening. The girl curled back into her chair and stared at the patterned grain of the table. She wanted nothing more than to escape these people and go back home.

-----

"So, does he?"

"Why are you askin' me?" Morgan whined. "You think I got the 411 on what Hotch has in his closet?"

"I know he keeps Fred Segal and Brooks Brothers in business," Emily countered. "I don't know…I just can't see him as the casual type."

"Just because he dresses professionally for the office doesn't mean he doesn't dress down at home," Reid pointed out, still poring over a file Garcia had dropped on his desk. "You really think he watches action flicks in his three-piece?"

"Kid, I swear he'd plant whole forests in that black and gray ensemble he wears like, once a week," Morgan replied. "Save that one time in Colorado, I don't think I've _ever_ seen him in anything but a suit."

"And even that was for the job," a voice said as Rossi joined in the conversation. "Trust me. I've known Aaron Hotchner a long, long time, and even _I_ don't think I've seen him in jeans."

"I wonder why Chase asked if he had any," Reid wondered.

"Maybe it was just a way of asking," Emily said.

"Could be she just wanted to start off light," Morgan speculated.

"No," Reid disagreed. "She made a point of it. Plus she and Oliver weren't exactly dressed up either."

"Kid, I think that woman would fight crime in her pajamas if she could," Morgan said. "Just her footwear alone…"

"She hates shoes."

"That's my point." Morgan tapped a pencil on his desk. "You did notice she had on tennis shoes, right?"

"She did?"

"Uh-huh," Emily concurred. "Looked new too. Those must be a bitch for her…"

"So she bought shoes. So what?"

"Kid, you don't buy new clothes on a case unless you need them."

"You're missing the larger clue, ladies and gentlemen," Rossi said.

"Which is?" all three younger agents asked at once.

"The noise in the background."

"But she said what that was," Reid countered. "Harleys."

"Exactly," Rossi said. "Now why would she and Oliver need motorcycles?"

"No," Emily countered. "The better question is, who are they working with that _has_ motorcycles?"

"I think I can answer about half of that," Garcia said, her face all business.


	2. Chapter 2

**Usual disclaimers.

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"The Revolution is bad, horrible, extremely not-pleasant news," the tech said once the team had regathered around the round table. "Joseph Salvador, a.k.a 'Boss,' is wanted on multiple counts in the state of California, as well as assault charges in Oregon, possession with intent in Washington State, and assault and battery in Montana. Mainly, his business involves running massive amounts of heroin and cocaine as well as some major gun-running."

"But there's no gun charges," Emily said.

"That's the thing, Emily the great—all his gun transactions are either well under the table or perfectly legit. One of those 'we know, but we can't prove' sorts of things?"

"Okay," Hotch said. "What about the rest of the group?"

"About thirty to thirty-five members, all with lists of priors longer than Reid is tall, all seriously bad news," the tech continued. "His second-in-command, Tall George—no, I couldn't get a legal name, but I'm trying—is wanted for both rape and murder in Northern California and Oregon. Apparently he took a liking to a couple of young women that didn't like him back."

"So he killed them?" JJ asked.

"No, killed their boyfriends," Garcia said. "The girls then, uh, 'consented' without consent, if you catch me."

Morgan's face took in a look of pure contempt and disgust. "Do they think that's what happened to this girl Hathaway?"

"It's possible," Rossi mused. "Pretty girl, easy to control…"

"Not a lot of family to help her," Hotch concurred. "Garcia, what about the family?"

"Dad dies in an accident when the kids were twelve and ten, mother never remarried, raised both of them on SSI and Dad's pension from the lumber company he worked for. Brother's got no record, neither does Mom, and I gotta say, both of them don't look like the type to get involved with biker gangs, in my oh-so-very-humble opinion."

"Look into the others—friends, other relatives. Maybe this girl was random, maybe not," Rossi said.

"But why call us?" Emily wondered aloud.

"What do you mean?" Hotch asked.

"I mean, this is just a simple kidnapping, right? You and I both know Chase and Oliver can handle this. Why are they calling us?"

"Maybe there's something we missed," Reid pointed out. "She did say she wasn't finished with the call before they had to leave."

----

"You're sure you saw her?"

"Look, I know what I saw. That girl didn't belong with that crowd any more than I belong in a nudist colony," the waitress said, shoving her grayish-blond hair out of her face. "Then she left this on the table, just crumpled like it was trash."

Kyle Parker took the piece of paper out of the woman's hand, carefully opening the note from its heavily creased folds. Laying it next to a handwriting sample that had been procured from her family, the investigator studied the two documents carefully before nodding slowly in approval. –This is her handwriting,-- he signed carefully, using simple signs that his 'hosts' would understand.

"It's her," a large, denim clad man said, whitish-blonde hair falling over his head and neck in strands. Bright blue eyes were covered by a stylish pair of Ray-Bans. Then the man turned back towards the waitress. "You hear where they were headed?"

"Only said they were heading north," the woman said apologetically. "Truth be told, I was glad when they left. Scared off most of the staff—a lot of 'em didn't show for work today…"

"Thanks." The man sighed. "We're heading north, boys and girls."

"Got a destination, Big Dog?"

Big Dog shook his head. "Nothing solid. I'm hoping our guests will be able to figure that one out."

"Give me five more minutes on this stupid thing, and I might," Chase Davis said impatiently, smacking the laptop console in front of her. –Kyle, fix this thing!—she signed angrily. –Does us no good if it's not gonna work half the time…--

--Stop hitting it, for one,-- the investigator signed back, sighing heavily. –You'll break the circuits in it, you keep doing that…--

As the two old friends figured out how to make the conference call work, a short, skinny woman sidled up next to Oliver. "You think these Washington people can help?" she asked.

"If anyone can, Blondie, it's them," Oliver said. "Hell, they've even saved my own hide more than once."

Blondie looked appraisingly at the young man, her leather and denim getup covering a suntanned and weather-beaten complexion. "Not bad, doll," she said approvingly. "Maybe this girl just might have a chance."

"Yeah. If we can find these damn people first."

-----

The wind whipped fiercely across her face. The towns became a blur—Pacifica, Half Moon Bay, East Palo Alto and so forth. Her backside ached as it unwillingly straddled the thin, hard leather seat, and the sun glared down fiercely onto her unprotected skin.

Cars passed by slowly, as though they were standing still at points. She'd tried to call out for help, earlier on, but her quiet voice had been drowned out by the sounds of backfire and V-twin engines. "No one to hear you, girlie," one of the men had told her later, screaming himself to prove his point. "No one but the open air and the road ahead."

Miserable, the young woman sat precariously on the seat, having learned to lean when the bike did so as not to fall off or tip the machine over. The thick industrial strength elastic that made up her improvised 'seat belt' was almost impossible to break, and a tip or an accident would be catastrophic for her.

"Shouldn't have tried to jump," the tall man had warned. He called himself Tall George, and he almost always forced the young woman to join him at dinner or on a drinking binge. Twice he'd tried to coerce her into doing lines of coke, but she'd managed to successfully plead her way out of that predicament, and feared when the next insistence would come.

_This is it, Gail,_ the young woman thought to herself. It had been so long since someone had actually called her by her own name. Mostly the other bikers just called her Girlie, or 'bitch' if they were completely drunk and pissed. Gail dreamed of escape; to manage to sneak off one night in some bar and run away, far away, and then start the trip back home. Lately she'd been leaving clues for the wait staff in the bars the group overtook—crumpled notes passed off as litter, writings in the bathroom stalls, even daring to carve her initials onto a wooden table she'd been told to occupy one night while everyone else partook in their 'major shipment' of heroin.

A loud catcall erupted from the bike's driver in front of her, and suddenly Gail felt the machine underneath her moving much too fast for the winding road it occupied. Fearing for her life, Gail immediately latched onto the meager framework under the seat as a handlebar and shouted, "Please, slow down!"

"You wanna go faster, girlie?" the driver, a fat man called Crazy Louie, called back. "Okay, we can go faster…" Soon Gail could barely hold on as she shrieked, terrified the thin two-seater would tip over onto her as this madman wound it around parts of the upcoming mountain in front of her.

"Please, please, slow down," Gail cried. "I can't hold on…"

"Gotta lean when I lean, girlie," Crazy Louie said sharply. "Otherwise…"

Just then a larger bike caught up to them—one Gail had heard referred to as a 'full dresser.' "Tall George says you break his bitch, he'll break your ass," the rider called out.

"Then he shoulda thought about that before trading that bike in some months back," Crazy Louie called back. "Getting a one-seater when everyone knows about him and the ladies…"

"Man, I'm just sayin'," the rider said before falling back.

Reluctantly, Crazy Louie lowered his speed, and Gail heaved a huge sigh of relief. _I'm not gonna die,_ she thought. _At least, not today, and not like this…_

-----

"You're serious."

"Yep."

"There's no way…"

"Six seats. Plus a sidecar should Garcia be inclined."

"Oh, no, I'm staying home," the tech said hastily. "I'm all for peace and love and open-mindedness, but I'm pretty sure that I won't fit on the back of a Harley."

"No worries, Garcia," Oliver chuckled. "Fatboy Chuck's as round as he is tall, and rides a Springer."

"He must wear thongs." That comment got everyone going.

"Well, I'm not about to ask. Big Dog's planning to hold off on picking up the chase until you all get in, and then we gotta stop to the nearest shop."

"Shop?" Emily asked. "We followed the list you sent over…"

"I know. God, I'd have killed to see Hotch buying jeans," Chase joked. Then, in a more serious tone, she asked, "He did, didn't he?"

"Yes, Chase. Six pair."

"Wow." A mirthful chuckle escaped the young investigator's lips.

"What's happened so far?" Rossi asked, trying to get the conference back on track as the team was flying over the Dakota prairies.

"Aside from us playing Hansel and Gretel, nothing to write home about," Oliver admitted. "Gail Hathaway's leaving a trail, but it's not much. Most times we're about a day, day and a half behind her."

"A trail?" Reid queried.

"Notes, scribbles on bathroom stalls, the like," Chase picked up. "Most times it's the same—her name, maybe a date. Couple times she added something small, maybe a personal note. The last one she indicated that there was a shipment going out."

"Cocaine? Heroin?"

"My guess is, probably both," Oliver said. "Kyle did some digging, found out these people run about two major shipments a year. After that, it's anyone's guess where they hole up."

"They seem to like Northern California," Garcia said, her voice tinny as she spoke through her connection back at Quantico to the investigators on their fuzzy hookup. "Lots of reports in the San Francisco Bay area, near Yosemite, around Lake Tahoe, and close to the Oregon border."

"Do we know if they run drugs to Mexico?" Morgan asked.

"No, why?"

"I mean, most drug runners would want to gravitate towards Mexico—better supply, less law enforcement. This group doesn't."

"You're right," Emily concurred. "It's almost as though they want to expand north to Canada, maybe Alaska."

"Could also be that they're comfortable with the area," Rossi pointed out. "Didn't you say most of these individuals are from those areas you mentioned, Garcia?"

"Yeah, most of 'em," the tech replied. "Two for certain are definitely not—Boss Salvador and a man called Jose Enrico, both from Mexico way. Salvador is from Baja, Enrico near Chihuahua."

"Strange that this guy Salvador can command a following such as he has," Reid murmured.

"Why strange?" Chase asked. "From all accounts, he's a pretty good planner and a hell of a 'motivator.' Northern California's full of the upper class, save a few areas, and what better way to rebel from the corporate image than join a biker gang?"

"Corporate image?" Hotch queried.

"Silicon Valley's up here too, as is Napa. Business and agriculture."

"Terrific," JJ mumbled. "Decent hodgepodge of skill sets."

"It wouldn't surprise me to find out that Salvador got his start as a migrant worker," Rossi predicted. "Man who can handle a crowd, either through persuasion or force…"

"And he started small," Garcia confirmed. "Moved from burglary to assault at the age of fourteen. Things just get worse from there."

"Guys, we're about to land," Emily said. "Where are you?"

"Town called San Carlos, about an hour from wine country. Kyle'll send over the coodinates, and then we can get the introductions and whatnot underway."

"That's the other thing I forgot to ask," Hotch said. "We got the invitation from you, Chase…but we need local law enforcement's approval."

"Oh, we did, Hotch," JJ quickly interjected. "State as well as Solano County, where the original kidnapping took place."

Six pairs of eyes stared at the laptop in front of them, which had suddenly been turned off.

"I'm really not sure I want to know," the unit chief said, shaking his head with a very small smile.

-----

--What? No Garcia?—

--She's manning the post,-- Chase said simply as Big Dog walked over. "Yes, they're landing. Give them two hours, and they'll be here."

"Hathaway might not have two hours, Chase."

"I know. Believe me, I know. However, she's managed to survive with these people for four months. Leads me to believe that she's more valuable to them alive than dead."

"True enough." Doug Cerrano, a.k.a 'Big Dog,' settled himself on the picnic table bench next to the young woman. "Question is, why take a girl on the off-season and keep her through a delivery run?"

"I don't know," Chase replied. "Maybe one of the guys really liked her."

Kyle Parker, meanwhile, stood up and stretched, taking in a deep lungful of the fresh California mountain air. He let his eyes do the walking as his ears were useless, and noticed something as he flipped casually through the photos of the various 'notes' that Gail Hathaway had managed to drop along her trail. He tapped forcefully on the table, managing to get both his employer and the leader of the bike group hosting the trio's attention.

--"What?"—Chase asked.

Thrusting the pictures forward, Kyle tapped on the small 'additions' Gail had left behind. –See that?— he said.

"Yeah, I see it," Big Dog said, nodding his head for the deaf man's benefit. "So?"

Kyle scanned the notes and put them in order of discovery. –Now look,-- he said, tracing his finger along the 'additions' in each note.

"I'll be damned," Chase said. "Hey, Ollie!"

"What?!"

"Come here," Chase said, forgetting momentarily to sign for Kyle. "Look what Kyle found."

Oliver studied the hidden message. –"Smart girl,"— he said. "I'll call the others, tell them to meet us there instead."

"Good move," Big Dog concurred. "Maybe we won't need to dress them up in leather after all."

"Damn," Chase said under her breath.

"What?" Oliver asked.

"And here I thought I'd see the great Aaron Hotchner in a pair of jeans…"


	3. Chapter 3

**Usual disclaimers. The "pool hall" incident referred to in this chap can be referenced in "The Great New Year's Challenge and SwapOff."  


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"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Fine. See you then."

"What was that, Hotch?" Morgan looked quizzically at his boss when the older man started reprogramming the GPS system included in the Bureau's standard SUV.

"Kyle Parker found a message in the notes Gail Hathaway left," Hotch explained. "According to her, the group plans to make the trip to Alaska by way of the Sierra Nevadas. Apparently the last stop on the range in California is just west of Lake Tahoe—a town called San Cristos."

"I'll call the others," Morgan said, reaching for his cell phone.

-----

As the two SUV's pulled into the town of San Cristos, Reid was immediately reminded of a slightly greener version of one-horse towns he'd come across growing up in Nevada. There was a blinking light along the main thoroughfare, right on the corner next to the local bar and grill. On the other side of the street, a few yards up, sat a two-pump gas station that looked as though it had come out of a movie from the 1950's.

_People _live_ here?_ the agent wondered, just as a large tumbleweed drifted through the center of town.

"I thought we were meeting Chase and Oliver?" Emily said, phrasing it in the form of a query rather than a statement.

"That's what they said," Hotch replied, trying to figure out the best way to lose his suit coat without looking like he was stripping in the middle of the street. "Hathaway's notes led them to this location…" The unit chief was suddenly drowned out by the sound of enormously deafening engines, and on instinct all six profilers instantly reached for their sidearms. A group of about twenty-five bikes drew closer, gradually pulling over to the side, and one in particular—a custom trike painted a deep navy blue color—pulled up towards the SUV's.

"Hey," a familiar face said, cautiously waving at the little group, and a sigh of relief was evident as the federal agents noticeably relaxed.

"Are you tryin' to put us in an early grave, Chase?" Morgan scolded.

The young woman snorted. "Please. If that were true, you'd already be there, and without my help, I might add." Turning towards Hotch, she said. "You're gonna want to change, Hotch. Like, now."

"What for?"

"Salvador's group is supposed to be here by this time tomorrow," Oliver Lawrence replied, walking over from a now-parked Harley Fat Boy. "Gives us just under twenty-four hours to prepare."

"Who are all these…?" JJ asked, looking at the odd assortment of men and women dismounting from motorcycles of various styles and varieties.

"Oh, yes." Turning around, Chase called out, "Hey, Big Dog! Blondie!" At her beckoning, a round, tall roly-poly man with stringy white-blonde hair and sunglasses approached, followed by a small, skinny woman who looked overtanned and weatherbeaten, even for California standards.

"Doug Cerrano, otherwise known as 'Big Dog,' these are the special agents I was talking about. You already met Morgan last New Year's…"

"Yeah! The pool hall!" the large man boomed, chuckling as though he were a tanned version of Santa Claus.

Chase introduced the rest of the agents, then added, "This here is Julie Cerrano, or 'Blondie.' They're both state cops."

"Really?" Emily said, impressed.

"Yeah," Mrs. Cerrano replied. "All of us are current law enforcement here, 'cept for Doc Sven—transplant six years ago took him off the force. He still coordinates for us, though."

"And you use motorcycles?" Reid asked in amazement.

"Combination bike club and patrol force," Blondie said. "Don't look so surprised, kid—I'm sure you've gotten a few stares yourself."

Reid instantly looked downward in embarrassment.

"He's all right, guys. Come on inside, out of the sun—and change, Hotch!" Chase said firmly, as though she were daring to give the staunch agent an order.

"She's right," Big Dog said. "Five minutes in that'll get you dead from hyperthermia or the suit ruined on scalding tailpipes."

Emily looked over at the assortment of bikes. "We're gonna have to ride those?"

"Might. Kyle in there's got a plan; if it works, maybe not."

-----

The town of San Cristos always reminded Gail of a ghost town. She'd been brought through this place twice before, and each time she wondered why the abandoned, dilapidated buildings that littered what had once been the main drag simply hadn't fallen over in a stiff wind. Looking around, she saw that aside from a rusted pickup and a couple of beaten clunkers the scrubby street was bare. The roar of the other engines now filled her ears as the rest of the group caught up—Crazy Louie always loved to be the first one anywhere.

"Hop off," the thick man ordered, and Gail thankfully dismounted the man's bike. As she walked around a little to get her legs back, she thought she saw something shiny glinting inside a badly decomposing barn site. _I don't remember that being there last time,_ the young woman thought.

As the rest of the group arrived and dismounted, she could hear the booming voice of the scraggly man the others called "Boss."

"We'll stay here tonight, so find a place to bed down, if you can. Tomorrow's gonna be a long ride. We've got a deadline to make." Pausing a moment, the man then cast a twinkle out of his cold eyes. "For now, though, let's eat!"

At this the group—some thirty-five riders—stormed the old bar en masse. Catcalls and shouts filled the small room, and Gail found herself shoved roughly towards one side of the establishment. "Stay here," Tall George said, depositing her at a small table near the wall. "You and me, we got a lot to catch up on."

Gail grimaced as the man set out to order drinks. As far as the tall, overpowering man was concerned, she was little more than attractive property to him; a convenient if unwilling whore he'd taken a liking to. She had been lucky when she'd managed to escape doing lines at his request months earlier. Her luck when it came to how she spent her nights hadn't run as deep. Frantically, her eyes searched for some way out of this building, though the young woman knew it would be useless. Even if she managed to step foot out of the building, there was no one to turn to and no chance at finding transportation this far where Jesus lost his sandals.

"Can I get you somethin' hon?" the waitress asked, and Gail's thick, matted hair shifted as her head jerked in the direction of the voice. The woman looked slightly older than her, with bright green eyes and deep black hair. A cautiously bored look was plastered over the woman's tanned face.

"Um…I…" Gail thought fast. It had been weeks since she'd had the opportunity to choose her own meal. A lot of times she was not allowed food, usually for some imagined slight or transgression. "A cheeseburger, please?" she said quickly.

"Standard or with dressing?"

"Ah…dressing."

"Lettuce, pickles, tomatoes?"

"N-no tomatoes."

"French fries?"

"Th-that's fine."

"What do you want to…"

"Please," Gail whispered frantically. "Please, help me."

The waitress gave a puzzled look. "Huh?"

"Please, help me." This was the first time she hadn't been surrounded by the other bikers—they were all too busy taking bets on who could do how many shots or lines or eating their own meals to notice she was alone. Up at the bar, she could see Tall George going through round after round of tequila, buying as many as five at a time and passing them out to others willing to drink.

"Somethin' wrong, honey?" the waitress asked, mercifully keeping her voice low. It wasn't necessary. A deaf person could have heard the racket the raucous bikers were making.

"My name is Gail. I'm being kept by these people against my will…"

The waitress cast a thoughtful look around, taking in the sights of the patrons around her. On the other side of the room, two more waitresses were taking orders—one a petite woman with long blonde hair, the other a taller woman with dark black hair. Up at the bar, a weathered blonde woman was pouring drinks with remarkable ease.

"Let me see if I can get that," the woman replied, tapping a finger twice on the rough plank table. She scribbled something down on a piece of paper and then left towards the kitchens.

Gail allowed herself a surge of hope. She looked furiously for a scrap of paper, but there wasn't so much as a napkin in sight. A door slamming caught the girl's attention, and several more bikers walked into the establishment, casting pointed glances at the men who had functionally taken over the place. Gail's eyes took in several of the newcomers—a handsome, brown-haired man with even features and a nice smile, a large, roly-poly man with stringy hair and sunglasses, two taller sorts that looked like bean poles with handlebar mustaches, and a rather distinguished sort that looked like he fit better in a suit than the blue jeans and denim he was currently sporting. She held her breath as the men walked over towards her little table.

_What's going on?_ the young woman wondered. At the bar, the conversation with the adept bartender was keeping Tall George occupied, and for that Gail heaved a sigh of relief. The newcomers sat down two groups—each occupying a table next to Gail's, on either side. The bored waitress that had taken her order now walked over to resume her main function with these incoming gentlemen.

----

--Why are we the ones doing this?—

Kyle shook his head at his friend. –Because we can't shoot for crap, that's why.—

--Hey, I'm not that bad…--

The investigator bit back a chuckle. –Your scores are as bad as mine on a range. Problem is, you need motivation to make the shot.—

--Motivation?—

--Someone has to be literally threatening to kill you for you to get it right.—

Now Reid was insulted. –How do you know, anyway?—

--Reid, I've seen your scores. Plus I maybe had kind of a peek or two in your files…--

The two were making their way towards the row of bikes lined up outside the bar, armed with a bag of sugar. Though Kyle had had the brilliant plan, he'd made sure that only the best shooters were both inside and surrounding the perimeter, which had left both himself and the genius doctor without much to do.

--Great. I've been demoted to ruining motorcycle engines. My mother would be proud.—

--She already is.—

Reid really couldn't argue with that, so he settled for keeping his ears open as much as possible while Kyle managed to wrest off one of the bikes' gas caps. –Spoonful of sugar,-- he signed, tapping the bag in his hand and smiling. –Good thing it's dark…--

--Hurry up. I think I hear something.—

Kyle's mirthful demeanor vanished and he became all business. Soon the pair had worked through three more bikes when suddenly a shout rang out from inside the bar. Bright blue eyes noticed as Reid stiffened a little in the fading twilight.

--Well? Did you hear something?—

Standing still a moment, Reid shook his head. –Nothing. Keep going.—

Kyle had managed to unscrew a fifth gas cap—this one had been particularly sticky—and was about to drop in the sugar when a thick hand clenched around his arm. Startled, Kyle immediately looked up to see a red, blustering face that looked as though it was screaming at him.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?!" the deaf man thought his assailant was saying.

Blue eyes widened in fear. Looking over towards Reid, he found that the man had suddenly made a 'new friend,' and Reid's barely concealed panicking expression told the investigator everything he needed to know.

Then he saw his assailant's lips move again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Usual Disclaimers.**

* * *

All hell had broken loose.

Chase had made her way towards the frightened girl's table, perfectly acting the part of a perturbed yet bored waitress. She had just come out of the kitchen with the girl's order and a stack of napkins that covered the note under the plate.

_Head for the bathrooms and make a left towards the kitchens. Make it look like an 'accident.' Someone will be in there to help._

Once the food had been delivered, Chase had walked off calmly and started chatting up Big Dog and Hotch, trying to look as though she was angling for a better tip.

"It's all on her, now," she'd casually whispered, having made a point to point out JJ in the little waitress's uniform that both women—plus Emily—were sporting. To anyone eavesdropping, it had sounded like the blonde liaison would perhaps make a move of some sort, but everyone involved knew that the real subject of conversation was sitting uncomfortably at a small table near the window. "I really don't know how much longer Blondie can chat him up."

Three pairs of eyes had wandered up towards the bar, where Blondie was expertly pouring drinks and doing her best bartender impersonation.

"Thanks," Hotch said, trying hard to come off relaxed. Just as Chase had wandered off to 'tend' to her next table, the profiler saw the girl stand up and make her way towards the bathrooms. "There she goes," he said, making sure his eyes were focused on Chase rather than on his real target. The miniature transmitters that Big Dog's coordinator, Doc Sven, had inserted into everyone's clothes were working like a charm, and the new 'kitchen staff' had been poised and ready.

"Just a little more," Big Dog had said aloud, tipping is coffee cup as though it was empty. Chase immediately had went to grab the coffeepot. As she did, she 'accidentally' bumped Gail Hathaway into the kitchen, all the while making it look accidental. Not one of the renegade bikers noticed.

"We've got her Hotch," the voice of Oliver Lawrence said over the nearly invisible earwig. "Let's get the hell out of Dodge."

"Gotta stop that shipment too," Morgan called out over the frequency, his voice hoarse. Then suddenly, a loud shout erupted from the little table Gail Hathaway had vacated.

"Where is she?!" the man called Tall George thundered, a look of pure hatred and venom plastered all over his dark features.

"Hell if we know, George," a stick-thin biker snapped back, his hands resting heavily on the top of his sidearm—a Colt .45. "Maybe you should keep a better eye on your bitch rather than line up the next one."

Big Dog's hands whitened just a touch as he heard the disparaging remark made about his wife. "Easy," Hotch hissed, and the state patrolman relaxed, though the violent look of contempt in the large man's eyes never faded. Unfortunately, the stick-thin man had caught it.

"Seems that one there might have a problem with you making a move there, George," he said, pointing at Big Dog.

"That so?"

"Yeah, it's so," Big Dog said, rising to his full 6'4''. "Got ideas on taking another man's wife, eh?"

"Wife? She ain't married."

"The hell she ain't!" Big Dog blustered, the act working like a charm. "Bitch left me for some hack on a Honda, then came crawlin' back when he couldn't put out no more." Careful eyes sized up the tall man challenging him. "The hell with it. Yours for a song, if the number's right."

"Right number, huh?" Tall George chuckled darkly. "How 'bout I give you $.55 worth of lead in your skull and then fuck her 'til she breaks in two? That a 'fair' number to you?"

Big Dog rubbed his bearded chin a few seconds, looking as though he might consider it. "Ain't a deal unless I keep breathin', it's cash in my hand and I get to watch."

"Oho! My kind of asshole!" Tall George whooped. "Sure. I'll make that deal."

"Come on," Big Dog said. "I hear there's plenty of rooms available."

The unlikely pair had then set off towards the doors, leaving a thunderstruck group of bikers and undercover law enforcement in their wake. "Come on, bitch," Big Dog demanded, beckoning a stern finger towards Blondie. "You wanted an upgrade…now let's see if you can handle it."

Suddenly someone in the front of the establishment had snorted in laughter. A second later, someone else guffawed. Soon the laughter was contagious.

"Terrific," Hotch muttered under his breath. _Hopefully Reid and Kyle managed to get their end of the deal complete…_

Just then the seasoned federal agent had heard a shout. "_The hell d'you think you're doing?!"_

_Oh, shit._

The laughter had instantly ceased, and now curious looks were darting around the wide floor. "The hell?" one of the bikers wondered aloud.

"Hey, Boss! Got us a problem out here!"

No sooner had that call rang out than everyone in the building raced for the street—Hotch, JJ, Chase and Emily included. The ruse of curious onlookers grew harder to uphold when the trio saw what the incensed man was holding in his hand—Kyle Parker, firmly by the collar. Nearby, Reid was standing almost motionless as something shiny glinted in the moonlight.

"The hell you got to say for yourselves, huh?" Boss Salvador asked, his long, lean frame a contrast to the overwhelming authority he held over this raucous outlaw bunch.

"It's entirely my fault," Reid said evenly, lying through his teeth. "We, ah, accidentally nicked the paint on that bike there, in the middle…"

"Which one, _ese?"_

"The, ah, red one, with the detail work…the flames?"

"Son of a bitch! That's _mine!_" a voice rang out, and a rather large man that could give Big Dog a run for his money came crashing out of the crowd. "The hell'd you do, huh?"

"It…it was an accident."

"Hmm." Boss Salvador didn't look convinced. His jet-black mustache twitched in thought. "What about you, _ese_?" he said, pointing at Kyle. "What's your story?"

"He doesn't talk," Reid said quickly.

"_Doesn't,_ or _won't_?" the Mexican said menacingly. "Two different things, that."

"Guys, now would be a good time," Chase said. An affirmative nod came from JJ and Emily and Chase, who were already reaching for their sidearms.

"Careful," Hotch warned.

Suddenly the clicks of nearly thirty weapons came floating out of the breeze, and soon the whole scene exploded into chaos.

----

_Note to self: being bent over the back of a Harley while flying at ninety miles an hour is _definitely_ hazardous to your health!_

Kyle didn't dare to look up. He hadn't since he'd woken up from having been knocked unconscious and then roughly shoved over the tank of a sturdy Springer Softail and spirited off into the darkening night, far from help or a friendly face of any kind. Sparks had flown from somewhere—whether it was someone from Big Dog's group, the Blue Devils, or a member of The Revolution was a mystery to him—and that was, apparently, when Kyle's captor had shoved him onto the bike and drove like hell towards the nearest safe exit.

The night wind whipped his face, and the smell of cooling pavement became a harsh reminder that he was anything but safe. The firefight could be miles away by now, for all he knew, but for him the danger was only just beginning. Kyle grew more anxious as the motorcycle sharply pulled over to the side, nearly tipping him onto his face as it came to a sudden stop.

_What the hell?_ the investigator wondered. Kyle's bright eyes shone like beacons, and they desperately needed to compensate now for the silence that eternally engulfed him. As the bike rested at an angle, he tried to push himself off the machine, only to wince and let out a yelp of pain as his hands flew off the overheated tank.

Strong hands pulled the young man close. "Gonna make yourself useful," he thought he saw his captor say. "You and that friend of yours."

_Friend? What friend? Don't tell me they took Reid too…!_

No sooner had the thought been processed did Kyle nearly fall over after something fell into him, hard. Precariously remaining upright, Kyle bent down to help the willowy profiler back to his feet.

--What's going on?-- he managed to ask.

Reid shook his head, staring intently behind him. Suddenly Kyle felt something cold roughly assault the tender skin of his back. A forceful shove in the shoulder directed him towards the resting bikes, and Kyle looked around in absolute bewilderment.

--"They want us to get back on,"— Reid said, signing as well as speaking. –"The right way."-- His long fingers seemed a bit clumsy, fumbling over the easy words. Kyle guessed that Reid was also just waking from a blow to the head as well. The taller man's head turned slightly, and Kyle caught the profiler's lips moving but could not get an angle to properly decipher the spoken English his friend excelled at.

The same rough hands that had made their dominance painfully evident once again gestured towards the waiting vehicles. Swallowing hard, Kyle watched as Reid was forced onto the back of the large dresser. The biker took his time, as though there was no worry about someone following them or showing up unexpectedly. Once Reid was secured, the pair turned onto Kyle, shoving him forward with some help from the gun pointed at his back. The investigator crawled over the main seat and then shoved himself back into the passenger seat directly behind. A long, thick strap of elastic was tied firmly across Kyle's waist, and his hands were bound in front of him.

"Don't need you ending up dead yet," he thought he saw the bike's owner say to him, but with the dark and the speed of the epithet Kyle knew it could easily have been a comment on wishing him dead quick. Before Kyle could shake the confusion and shock of his situation, the powerful machine vibrated violently underneath him, and the Harley raced off into the night.

-----

Gail winced as her 'patient' sucked in a sharp breath of air, wincing in pain as the young woman applied alcohol to a bullet wound.

"It's just a graze, the man said," the newly freed captive said soothingly. "No stitches—just some time."

"Still hurts like hell," Morgan seethed, his face contorting in frustration.

The alcohol-soaked rag fell to the table. "Thank you," she said softly, her eyes fixated on the floor.

"Got nothing to thank us for. You saved yourself, leaving those notes. That was incredibly brave."

"I just wanted to go home," Gail said, picking the rag back up and resoaking it. She bit her lip, mostly as a way to keep her emotions in check. It was a habit she'd learned out on the road.

"It's okay. You can let it out."

"No, I can't," Gail said. "I…I want to help you. Find your friends."

"We got enough people workin' on that, Gail. You go home. Give yourself time to…"

"I know where they might go. Where they might take them. Please, let me do this." Gail swallowed thickly. "I know what it's like."

Morgan studied the young woman's face intently. A part of him was boiling in rage at the inept handling of the standoff earlier—a gun had gone off unexpectedly, opening the door for a miniature version of World War Three to erupt in the middle of the street.

His head turned a second to take in the scene that now laid before him. Bikers of all shapes and sizes were scurrying about, either tending to wounds or administering the medicine. A balding fiftyish man in full leather was looking at the more serious injuries, casting a critical eye on bullet wounds and a couple badly broken limbs.

"What's the verdict, Doc?" a long, thin man asked, nursing a bleeding arm. "Think it'll patch?"

"Keep cleaning it, and it'll just need some stitches," the balding man said, his thin gold-wire spectacles glinting in the dim light. "Don't go thinking of doing anything stupid, Curt."

"Got to go after those sons of bitches, Doc!" the patient, a man called Junior, spat angrily. "Takin' two of ours and makin' Swiss cheese of the rest…"

Morgan's eyes glanced over at his own band of law enforcers. Hotch was sporting a nasty shiner that seemed to be growing in size by the second, and Emily was busy putting cold rags filled with ice on top of the unit chief's face as he tried to assess the situation.

"Hold still, Hotch," Emily said in exasperation. "Really, this would work better if you'd hold it yourself…"

"We can't just sit here," Hotch said, his voice still calm and collected as ever. "Right now there's about twenty-five people getting away with trafficking and kidnapping of federal officers."

"Kyle's not federal," Emily reminded him.

"The hell he's not," the head profiler insisted. "Now they're working for us."

Just then Oliver burst into the bar, his whole being seething in rage. "We lost 'em," he reported to a slightly hushed crowd. "Ten miles and there's a five points. Finding the right one they took…"

Chase looked up at her partner, trying to ignore the pain of the deep bruises she'd suffered in a hand-to-hand fight with one of the renegade bikers. "So they're gone?"

"Their next stop is anyone's guess. I'd bet a lot that the remaining members split up, making it all that much more difficult." The former FBI agent fell silent a moment, then delivered a harsh punch to the table he stood near, crying out in frustration.

"Calm down," Rossi said, trying to help wrap JJ's broken leg in a makeshift splint.

"I know, I know, it's not going to help," Oliver spat.

Gail looked at Morgan. "Give me a map," she said.

"A map."

"Yes. And hurry."


	5. Chapter 5

**Usual disclaimers. Some points in this chapter will be clearer if you've read "Don't You Know What the Night Can Do?," which takes place about eight or nine months before this one. Please also note that though some characters have certain views on various portions of the US population, I do not share them.  
**

**

* * *

**

Reid didn't dare to even move once he'd been forced onto the back of the large motorcycle that was currently carrying him farther and farther from safety. He tried hard not to think about all the statistics he knew about motorcycle accidents and deaths relating to them.

The night air whipped over him as though it were an Arctic storm, and every so often an insect would pelt him as he connected with its flight path. Reid feared moving even an inch for fear the balance of the machine and its passengers would fail, leaving him helpless to what fate might occur after initial impact. His ears were bombarded with the sounds of a powerful engine roaring as though it was a lion demonstrating dominance on the open plain. The profiler tried calling out, only to find his words drowned out by the primal scream of the motor just slightly in front of him.

_Focus,_ the young agent told himself. _You've got to be the ears for two people now. _Reid turned his head ever so slightly and took in the darkness-cast image of Kyle Parker beside him, astride a smaller, thinner looking motorcycle, his hands bound in front and looking determined. Blue eyes managed to catch the attention of brown ones, and from the back of the smaller bike Reid saw Kyle's fingers move.

--What the hell do we do now?—

Reid shook his head slowly. Jumping off the back was not an option—the machine was doing nearly ninety miles an hour, and being 'strapped into' his seat as he was, the only thing jumping would do would be to cause the motorcycle to crash. He looked down at his hands, which were also bound in front. Picking them up, he began to speak.

--Keep your eyes open for clues as to where we're going. Maybe we can drop them like the girl did before.—

Suddenly, the bike carrying Kyle sped up, dragging away the one friendly face Reid had left to him. The motorcycles sped on, carrying their unwilling passengers farther away into the darkening night.

-----

The worn paper map spread out over the one lone table in the bar that wasn't covered in medical waste or injured limbs. "Five points, you said?" Gail asked, tracing her finger up from a tiny white dot on the surface.

"Yeah," Big Dog said, leaning in. After he and Blondie had led Tall George away, the two had made quick work of him. The outlaw now sat uncomfortably in a corner with his other comrades, looking as though he wanted to spit lead. "After that, we headed back. Couldn't use the sound to tell where they'd went, because they all had the same ones."

Gail peered at the tiny print, revealing names of small, forgotten towns in the Northern California region. "When I…I mean, when they would travel, I noticed they liked sticking to different routes. Always ended up in the same places, though, like they had a pattern."

"Figure out the pattern, figure out where they've got Kyle and Reid," Chase murmured, having ambled over to where the confab was being held. Nearby, Emily was chastising Hotch for trying to skip out on his medicine and JJ was testing out a makeshift pair of crutches.

"Doc says we need to get everyone with major injuries out, now," Blondie said solemnly, looking down towards where her husband was poring over the map. "Otherwise…"

"Do it. Radio's in the usual spot."

"Tiny's calling up now. What's next?"

"We're going after those bastards," Big Dog said firmly. "Shoot up our people, kidnap two, and they think they're walking…"

"I'm in," Morgan said, standing up from his seat. He winced as his grazed arm flared in pain.

"You get that arm looked at, son," a voice called from behind him.

"When we find Reid and Kyle," Morgan promised.

"Typical. Stubborn as they come, I bet."

"Oh, you have _no_ idea," Rossi said, coming closer.

"That boss of yours might be okay…keep his eye on ice a couple days, but as he won't be driving, shouldn't be a problem. You all right there?" Doc Sven asked, looking at Rossi intently.

"Not even a scratch," the senior profiler replied, making a little show of how not injured he was. "I'd like to join you, if I could."

"All hands on deck," Big Dog said. "We'll take what we can get."

"Here," Gail said finally, tracing two different paths. "I remember these two towns here, from one of their trips. They like small, one-car towns and ghost towns. Ghost towns especially."

"I wonder why?" a large biker called Little Ralphie wondered.

"Easier to dodge prying eyes," Morgan explained. "Gives them more control of their surroundings."

"And the people in them," Rossi added. "Control is key to these individuals. Control and power."

"Both of those, they have," Gail said. "Every town they dragged me through, all the people in them—if there were any—were scared stiff of 'em."

"You think you can navigate a course, Gail?" Chase asked, her mind spinning.

"Sure. I told Agent Morgan I'd like to help, if I can."

"Okay." Chase let out a sigh. "It's on you, Big Dog. What's next?"

"Get rid of the trash, try and get some sleep, and saddle up early. Like as not they'll have holed up somewhere for the night too, considering their wounded."

From the 'prison corner' of the bar, Tall George began to laugh.

"The hell's so funny?" Oliver shouted, his knuckles growing white.

"You'll never find them," he said, his tone condescending. "Your _amigos_? They'll have broken them by now…"

The image of a broken Reid or Kyle flashed through the minds of everyone in the bar. "You'd be wrong," Oliver said finally. "Dead wrong."

"Am I?"

Blue eyes stared firmly into Tall George's gray ones. "Believe me, you and yours can't _conjure_ the hell those two have seen—and lived through. Mark me on that."

The look on Oliver's face was so determined in his belief that Tall George mercifully fell completely silent.

-----

The building looked as though it would fall over in a stiff wind. Kyle managed to make out gaping holes in the dim moonlight, and he shuddered as he was forced off the back of the Springer and forward into the dilapidated structure.

Inside the remnants of cobwebs hung like gauzy strands of curtain, and a small flash in front of Kyle told the investigator that more than just spiders inhabited this place. A rough shove propelled him forward, stumbling as Kyle tripped over something lying down the dark path before him. _I really hope it wasn't a rat, _he mused as his feet unwillingly took him further into the bowels of this spooky prison.

Soon the small party came across a door at the end of the long hallway, and both Kyle and Reid were shoved hastily inside. Kyle spun on his heel, hoping to get a glimpse of his captors' faces, but the only sight that greeted him was the sight of the thick door slamming into place. Kyle could feel the strong vibrations through the walls and wooden floor as the barrier closed.

_What now?_ the investigator thought. Picking up his bound hands, he started towards where he thought there was a wall and laid his fingertips on it, walking slowly to determine the space he was now trapped inside. The room felt fairly large, but the pitch dark was starting to get to him. Kyle paced the walls, trying to determine some crack in the wood or hidden door covered by the opaque blanket that threatened to suffocate him. _The room's old, that's for sure,_ he determined, noting the worn texture of the wood, _but it's solid as ever. If there's a door out of here other than the one we came through, I can't find it._

Suddenly a flash of light momentarily blinded Kyle, and he stepped back from the source in an attempt to adjust his vision. On the other side of the room, Reid had managed to find a working electric lantern. –It's not much, but it's something,-- the profiler managed to sign as he set the light source on top of a discarded table.

--Better that than the alternative,-- Kyle agreed, and once again cast his gaze over the spacious room. It looked at first glance to be some sort of 'back room' of what might have been an old store. Two rows of simple plank shelving skirted around one set of walls, patiently waiting to be restocked with supplies. A long-ago barricaded door sat on the far wall, its access blocked by both long sturdy nails and wooden bars. Ratted, stained carpeting lay out underneath their feet, splotched with what looked to Kyle like oil or paint stains.

--Looks like an old paint store,-- the investigator determined, struggling with the sign for 'paint.' --Damn, I wish I had my hands free!—

Reid pointed a V-shaped hand from his eyes towards the confines of the room. –Let's look for something to fix that.— During the preliminary search, the two men found nothing of use that might cut the plastic ties that encircled their wrists.

--Keep trying,-- Reid said when Kyle let out a sigh of frustration. –There's got to be something…--

--I could use my teeth and make better progress, Reid,-- Kyle argued. With that, the investigator flopped down onto the dirty carpet, heaving another sigh of frustration. –Some rescue attempt, huh?—

--I don't follow…--

--We managed to swap the girl for us, instead of taking the bikers down like we should have,-- Kyle elaborated. –Now they have _two_ hostages instead of one.— Kyle's brows curved into a worried frown. –Do they know we're cops?—he asked.

Reid didn't answer. His face was contorted in a thoughtful expression. –They haven't said anything about it, if they do know,-- the agent replied finally. –They took our guns…--

--Naturally. Though I don't know why I bother carrying one anymore.-- Kyle then angled his hands to reach into his right pocket, and when his fingertips couldn't find what they were looking for, the man let out a dejected cry.

--Shh!— Reid hastily signed, putting a finger to his lips. –We don't need any more trouble!-- Worried brown eyes cast towards where the front door lay shrouded in darkness, and after a few seconds Kyle noticed Reid's features visibly relax when it appeared that no one was coming to see about the small outburst. –What was that for, anyway?—

--They took my knife. Best one I own.— Kyle grimaced. –Damn it!—

Reid picked up his bound hands, his brown eyes staring at the sturdy plastic that kept his limbs firmly in place. –Pretty ingenious,-- he signed.

--Effective, too.— Then Kyle looked up at Reid, who had suddenly stiffened straight as a board. –What?—

--The others are here.—

-----

The door to the back room opened, and Reid swallowed thickly as a light was turned on, bathing the room in a soft incandescent glow. Several leather and denim-clad men appeared, taking in the expressions on both his and Kyle's faces as thought they were clues to a puzzle that Reid was not yet aware of. Among the men was a slight, scraggly-looking man whose face Reid recognized from Garcia's brief dossier on the individual—the same man who had taken control once the firefight had started.

"So," Boss Salvador said, eyeing up his prisoners carefully. "Seems they'll let anyone in the law these days. God help us."

Next to him, Kyle looked slightly confused. Reid, however, didn't dare to pick up his hands to translate—_they might mistake it for an aggressive act, _he thought, _and that might lead to more trouble._

"Yeah, I figured you and yours was the law," Boss Salvador continued. "Lost us a fine woman on that account. What do you have to say for that, hmm?" The slight man inched closer to Reid, and the glint in the man's eyes was frightening.

"She wasn't yours," Reid finally forced out, trying to keep his voice even.

"Like hell. She's as much ours as you are, now," the biker spat.

"Worse," one of the other bikers whined. "Can't have no fun with them, Boss."

"Speak for yourself, Jack," another catcalled. "They look plenty fun to me…"

"Crazy qu--"

"Enough!" Boss Salvador shouted, and instantly the room fell silent. Sidling closer to Reid, the skinny man hissed, "You and yours took my second, and a few other good men. You two are going to make yourselves very, _very_ useful to me. _Comprende?_"

"How?" Reid said, ashamed at the slight quiver in his voice.

"You'll see." A long hand reached into Reid's pocket, pulling out the one thing these people hadn't taken from him yet—his credentials. A stout man decked in full leather did the same with Kyle, fishing out his investigator's license from his back pocket. "Looky here, Boss," the round man chortled. "One bona-fide private investigator, this one here."

"I'll see you that and raise you one FBI agent." Boss Salvador waved Reid's credentials in his hand as though they were a book on display. "Should shoot them now, for the trouble."

Reid gulped. Kyle looked even more confused.

Then the round man poked Kyle in the shoulder, hard. "Who were you workin' for, huh?" The man's full beard and mustache covered his lips, and Reid could tell that Kyle was having trouble reading them.

"Hey," the man said again, poking Kyle harder. "What are you, deaf? I asked you a question!"

"Yes," Reid blurted out, unable to stop himself.

"Yes what, cop?" the round man challenged.

"Yes, he is deaf," Reid replied, licking his lips as a nervous reflex. "Profoundly deaf. He can't hear you."

The revelation caused the room of bikers to explode into laughter. "Terrific!" Boss Salvador chortled. "They send out a man who can't hear to find _us_? I daresay we'll have no problems then with the rest of your people, then, if _this_ is the best they can spare!"

Reid fell silent. _Don't give too much away,_ he cautioned himself. "He's good enough," the agent settled for saying, casting a hateful look onto the crowd.

"Hope he can read lips, because those hands aren't coming loose," Boss Salvador said sharply. "Make do with what you've got, and be glad we don't just put you down now for the trouble."

Now two pairs of eyes glared at the presumptuous man, both wanting to arrest him where they stood.

"Clean them out," Boss Salvador said, and instantly two bikers started going through the rest of both Reid and Kyle's personal effects. Two pairs of standard-issue handcuffs came out, as did two PDA's, two wallets and Reid's watch.

"Small take, but it'll do," the biker said dismissively. "Put those cuffs on them and leave 'em. I'm due for a nap."

"No play, Boss?"

"No, Floyd, no play. Not tonight." An evil glint flashed over the Boss's eyes again. "But maybe in the morning."

At that Reid blanched. _No, _he thought desperately. _No, not again…!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Usual Disclaimers.

* * *

**

"As much as I don't like it, we'll split up," Big Dog told the group early the next morning. "Only takes one group to find them, and right now we don't have a lot of options."

"The best bet is between these two towns," Gail said, pointing between two small white dots roughly thirty miles apart on the map. "Napierville is a lot like this place—blink and you'll miss it—but Comstock Valley is a true ghost town. If you're going there, stock up."

"Why these two towns?" Emily wondered.

"Small, out of the way," Gail explained. "Like your friend said, control."

And so it was agreed. Morgan and JJ were staying behind to escort the captured bikers back to San Francisco, as with their injuries they would become a liability on the road. Morgan especially wasn't too happy with that assessment.

"It's just a graze," he complained. "Nothing a little alcohol can't fix. We need all the people we can get--"

"And we'll have them, Derek," Rossi tried to explain. "You really think our friends Davis and Lawrence are going to sit idly by?"

"More hands, Rossi…"

"And you'll be helping by getting something out of our new friends there," the senior profiler said, tipping his head towards Tall George and his companions. "Anything you can get out of them is one step closer to finding Reid."

"And Kyle," Morgan added, remembering the plucky investigator.

"And Kyle." Clapping the younger man on the shoulder, Rossi watched as the injured man took to his new role as acting warden of the seriously injured and otherwise immobile bikers. Rossi also thought about the several dead that lay out on the front porch of the old establishment; they, too, would have to be taken in to the city for autopsy.

"Saddle up!" the older man heard Big Dog call out, and within seconds the room emptied considerably as all but six of the remaining Blue Devils headed out front to their waiting bikes. As he too headed out towards the exit, Doc Sven stopped him.

"I hear you have some experience," the balding, bespectacled man said.

"I do."

A pair of keys was pressed into Rossi's hand. "I'll be better suited when it's over," he explained. "Damn pills. But it's better than the alternative."

"No doubt." Rossi stared at the keys. "Are you sure?"

"Let's say I have a good feeling about you. Plus, I know it won't tip over." The field doctor-turned-state policeman chuckled at that a bit.

"I appreciate it." Rossi returned the smile.

"Go, now," Doc Sven laughed. "Big Dog, he don't like to be kept waiting."

----

"How on earth…?"

"There is much that is unknown about me, Emily."

"Apparently." The wind was whipping through Emily Prentiss's hair as she tried to settle into the sidecar of Doc Sven's customized Fat Boy. "I guess I could see it," she called out, trying to be heard over the roar of the engine next to her.

"What?"

"You. On a bike."

"Have one at home." After a couple of strange looks from his passengers, he said, "I told you…"

Sitting behind Rossi, Hotch began to feel more and more out of place. He was used to the notion that his job—and its peculiarities—would force him to adapt to different cultures and situations. However, the normally prim and staid Aaron Hotchner never counted on being driven on the back of a Harley-Davidson as though he were a piece of carefully picked luggage.

"I'm beginning to see what Chase meant about the jeans," he called out after nearly burning his left leg on the scalding tailpipe of the enormous machine about five times.

"Helps with accidents, too," Rossi told him. "The denim stands up to sliding falls and road burns."

"Wish I had a helmet."

Rossi chuckled. "I think that had been part of the plan—to get some—but we'll have to make do. In any case, I don't think we'll be arrested for not having them at this point."

"I don't follow…"

"California has a helmet law—has had since the early '90's. It's a ticketing offense to ride without one on the roads."

"Great. We're chasing outlaws and breaking the law ourselves. Almost feels like the Wild West."

"I think that's kind of these people's point," Rossi said, bracing himself for the next curve in the road. "Hang on!"

------

Kyle woke to pitch blackness. A few deep breaths told him that he was in the same room he'd been locked in the night before, and the air was still as stale and musty as ever. His fingers searched for the small electric lantern Reid had found, but it was not where the investigator remembered leaving it just before finally dozing off.

They had made a threat. Kyle wasn't sure what it had been, but he saw Reid's face grow pale and scared as soon as the leader of the renegade group said it. The agent had tried his best to cover, but Kyle had known the man for too long for Reid to just hide his emotions that easily from him.

Beside him, something stirred. A soft, warm touch grazed Kyle's arm, and the deaf man reeled back in surprise and horror—_what if it's another rat? _he wondered—and cried out when the soft, fleshy _thing_ grabbed his arm tightly.

"Reid?" Kyle croaked out, hoping his fuzzy voice was understandable. "Is that you?"

Long fingers reached up towards Kyle's face and tapped twice on his cheek. Kyle heaved a sigh of relief. The inky blackness was suffocating the investigator, and his eyes fixated on the soft sliver of light that the front door to the room allowed in. Grabbing Reid's bound hands into his own, Kyle gave them a quick squeeze of assurance as he struggled to stand up. A few seconds later, the rough splintered door that trapped the pair in this dark hellhole was soundly being beaten on by the desperate investigator.

"Hey!" Kyle yelled, knowing his captors probably wouldn't be able to understand him. "Hey, assholes! Let us out! Do you hear me? _Let us out of here!_"

Kyle screaming went on for a few minutes until he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder. "What?!" Kyle spat, his voice fuzzy and thick.

Just then the the lights flew on as the door exploded open. Thick, meaty hands grabbed Kyle by the collar, drawing him closer to an irate individual with wild eyes and thick, bushy hair. Kyle tried desperately to keep up with the man's spoken words, but the speed of the outburst and the full beard made it difficult for him to decipher the spoken words.

"I can't hear you," he yelled. "Slow down!"

A mighty shake nearly knocked Kyle's head into his chest, and the screaming continued.

"I can't…"

Finally Kyle saw Reid draw closer to the pair, his bound hands raised in a non-threatening position. Kyle knew he was saying something to the irate man, and whatever it was, it was working. Within a few minutes Kyle's feet were firmly back on the ground, but he was not quick enough to escape a severe backhand to the face.

Reeling, the investigator nearly missed the sharp, sudden arm thrust that directed both he and Reid out into the main part of the building. As they were led into the front, Kyle's eyes took in the sight of dozens of leather-clad men lying haphazardly on the dusty wood-plank floor. Scores of liquor bottles and broken glass lie scattered between bodies, and the early-morning sun glittered through large panes of dirt-caked window glass. Something latched itself onto Kyle's ankle as he tried to navigate his way across the living debris strewn across the floors. He guessed that he had given a little bit of a yelp, which had earned him a glare from the wild-eyed man blazing the trail before him.

Kyle kicked off the hand that had found purchase on his leg, and the biker that had grabbed him turned over, still half-drunk, and to all appearances passed out again. Soon the unlikely trio made their way into a small room that reminded the investigator of a miniature bar setup, and two old, motheaten bar stools were roughly pulled out from behind the bar area. A stubby finger pointed intently at the seat, and Kyle mimicked Reid's action by sitting on the rickety perch.

The biker said something again, and Kyle could barely make out what was being said. Reid turned to his friend and translated, --He says he wants us where he can see us.— The signs were somewhat truncated, given the issue with the agent's bound hands.

The investigator picked up his own secured hands and swung them out toward the occupied main rooms they'd just passed through. –Right. Where are we going to go, Reid?-- Kyle chuffed a little. –The second we try to run this whole place'll wake up.—

--Not necessarily,-- the agent countered. –Most of them are passed-out drunk.—

--True.—

The wild-eyed man then snapped something at Reid, and meek eyes took in the angry face, saying something Kyle couldn't read. –What did he want?— Kyle asked once the man turned back to his early-morning drink.

--He wanted to know what we were talking about. I told him we were discussing how much we could drink before passing out.—

A smile crept over Kyle's face. –I know you. You've never been drunk.—

Reid smiled a little. –Only once. And I didn't like it.-- The profiler then cast his head around, and Kyle noticed that their 'warden' was beginning to look a little droopy around the eyes.

--Can you operate one of those things?— Reid asked suddenly.

--What things?—

--Those motorcycles. Can you drive one?—

Kyle shook his head. –But I'm game to learn real fast, if I have to.—

Reid nodded his head, and then casually cast his gaze around again. Kyle watched as the tall man nimbly edged himself off the bar stool and walked towards the nearest fallen biker, who was passed out on a steep set of stairs. Reaching his hands out, Reid mouthed 'Make sure that other guy isn't looking.'

The investigator stared off towards their 'warden,' who was just beginning to fall into the throes of unconsciousness. _Just a little more,_ Kyle thought. _A little more…_

Finally the man mercifully passed out. Kyle heaved a sigh of relief, hoping that it wasn't loud enough to wake anyone up. Nodding his head in approval, he motioned to Reid to continue carrying out his part of whatever plan the profiler had cooked up.

Reid nimbly inserted his long fingers into the man on the stairs' pocket, fishing for the small key ring that had left an impression on the front of his denim shirt. The process was a bit trickier, Kyle noticed, because of Reid's cuffed hands, but somehow the part-time magician managed to retrieve his prize without waking the oblivious victim. –Now to figure out which one this'll start,-- he signed, beckoning Kyle to follow him.

----

Loud snores echoes off the thin walls as Reid and Kyle picked their way back through the scattered mass of limp bodies that littered the dusty floor. Reid was particularly careful as to where he put his feet, as on the first trip through he'd heard several boards creak and groan with the force of an elephant squashing an accordion.

--You look like you're trying to avoid a mouse trap,-- Kyle told him.

--The floorboards squeak. Some of them loud.—

Kyle's eyes immediately began to widen. –Which ones?—

--Just step where I do, and we'll be safe.—

The two continued to navigate their way towards the front door, which had been mercifully left open by their captors. _This is almost too easy,_ Reid thought. _I'm missing something, I just know it…_

Once outside, the pair ran for the long row of motorcycles that lined the deserted street. Reid held the key up in his bound hands, angling the rising sunlight against them to get a look at the make of the device. It was a round, hollow key with a series of tabs inside—much like an inversion of an old music box drum.

--We can rule out plain keyholes,-- Kyle said. –That'll help.—

Both the profiler and the investigator began looking at each bike's ignition switch, looking for a key mechanism that fit the odd-shaped key they possessed. Finally Kyle raised his hands in the air, standing next to a purple Ultra-Glide that was designed as a full dresser.

--This is it,-- Kyle said, grinning as Reid checked the key. –Now all we have to do is get on.—

Reid handed the set of keys over to Kyle. –I'll ride, you drive,-- he signed, angling his long legs over the back of the motorcycle and settling into the narrow seat. As he adjusted himself, he grimaced a little.

--What?—

--There's a reason no one wants to ride in back on these things,-- was all Reid would say.

Kyle then managed to get his legs over the wide tank of the vehicle and settled himself in. The handlebars of the bike were short, with a wide distance between each one. As Reid watched, Kyle inserted the key and turned it, firing the engine. It roared to life, echoing off the miles of open space and empty buildings that surrounded them.

Reid pressed on the smaller man's shoulder in an attempt to hurry him up. _If that didn't' wake someone, nothing will_, he thought feverishly. Kyle continued revving the engine but finally shut the machine down, turning to face his friend.

--What's wrong?—

--My hands,-- Kyle said. –Look at them.—

Reid did. The investigator's hands were tied with the same type of plastic zip tie that his own were in addition to the pair of handcuffs that had been put on last night. When he put on what must have been a puzzled face Kyle reached over for the handlebars.

"Oh," the profiler said finally, realizing what was wrong. Then his eyes darted around, looking for something to cut the tie at least.

--Don't bother,-- Kyle said, sliding off of the machine. –We'd have to find the keys to our cuffs too. God only knows where _those_ are.—

--I thought I saw that guy Boss put them in his pocket.—

Kyle shrugged. –Maybe. But likely they've been in at least ten pockets between last night and now.—

"Hey!" a voice shouted, its tone more than irate. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?"

Reid looked at Kyle. Kyle quickly pulled Reid off the back of the motorcycle and started to run.


	7. Chapter 7

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

The wind whipped across Gail's face once more, but this time instead of dread she felt almost lighter than air. She clung onto Blondie's thin frame as the Springer the policewoman drove curved around the base of a large hill.

"This is wonderful!" the young woman cried.

"You didn't feel like this before?"

"No," Gail said. "I was too worried about what they might do next."

Blondie merely nodded. "So, Comstock Valley, huh?"

"Ghost town. Place reminded me of an old movie set rather than a town."

"And they use this place?"

"Couple like that, for quick dives and storage. I know they used to lock me up in this old store, some back room or something." The girl shivered at the memory. "Made for easier 'access'."

To her relief, Blondie merely nodded her head again. "Do you know where they would stash the coke?"

"No, ma'am. I know it was in some old building, but…they're _all_ old."

"Well, we'll comb the town when we get there. Big Dog's on his way to Napierville, and the distance is short enough if he's gotta double back."

"I never figured out why all the different paths…"

"Easy to spot traffickers if they stick to the same roads, no matter how 'back road' they are," the biker policewoman explained. "I just hope the guys are all right."

"I think so," Gail said. "They used to tell me I was worth more alive than dead, but dead wasn't something they'd cry over either."

"And with them being cops…" Blondie added.

"I really hope they haven't figured that out yet," Gail said. "They hate cops, worse than anything."

Blondie kicked the bike into gear a little quicker, hoping to make up some time. The small pack of bikes behind her followed her lead.

-----

"I ain't sayin' nothing," Tall George said stubbornly. "Go to hell, cop."

Morgan sat back in the chair as though the hard molded plastic was as soft as brushed microfiber. "That's fine. You don't have to say anything."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because I want to talk. I'm in a chatty mood, and you _don't_ have the right to be deaf." The remark made Morgan wince a little, and he tried to cover it. It wasn't terribly successful.

"Bet you're worried about your boys," Tall George teased. "My boys might make some fun out of 'em, especially Floyd…"

Morgan slammed his fist into the table and drew his entire frame as close to the biker as he could. "One mark on them. One scratch, and I will personally make sure you get what's comin'."

"Yeah. I'm scared. What are you going to do, lock me up?" Tall George looked as though he might laugh. "Please."

Morgan slowly sat back down, and evil grin plastering his face. "No. I'm not going to lock you up. The state will do that."

"Then what? You gonna bore me to death?"

"No. I'm going to make sure a friend of mine gets to plan a caper."

Tall George sounded intrigued. "Really. Someone gonna bake me a cake?"

"Nah."

"Then what?"

Morgan, however, fell silent. "Now, you think on that while I get some coffee. I have to warn you, though—one of those men you took, his boss is pretty nasty. And clever."

"I'm scared."

The profiler leaned in very slowly, making sure Tall George got a good look at him. "You should be." Then, before the prisoner could say another word, Morgan casually turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

-----

"I sincerely hope you know what you're doing," JJ said, leaning heavily on her brand new pair of stainless-steel crutches. Her leg was in a walking cast from her ankle to just below the waist, and the woman had had to resort to buying several skirts over the last hour just to have something to wear while here in the San Francisco state police station.

"Me too." Both agents were watching Tall George through the one-way glass, Morgan taking long pulls off of a Coke.

"I've never seen this technique used before, though. Something from the seminars?"

"Nah. Josh Hollenbeck taught me this one."

"How's it work? Insinuate that someone can get to the suspect?"

"There's always something a person is afraid of. Even if they don't know it. Find the thing, and you'll have a little leverage."

"Morgan, you can't threaten to hurt someone while in custody. Let alone the lawsuit and you jeopardizing your career, Hotch will kill you."

"Who said anything about threatening to hurt him?" Morgan said simply. "Did you hear me say that?"

"You insinuated it."

"Aha," the profiler said, turning towards his colleague. "Read the transcript again. I didn't say—or insinuate—anything of the kind."

"Threatening to send Chase into the prison where he's going to be housed…"

"I said I'd help a friend plan a caper. For all anyone knows, I'm giving Garcia the 411 on how to hook Reid up with a date."

JJ shook her head, smiling a small smile. "You _are_ good."

"And now our man has something to think about. See?"

The pair watched as Tall George began to fidget in his seat a little, his cold, dark eyes flickering ever so slightly towards the door."

"Bingo," Morgan cried. "Now I've got my leverage."

-----

"Don't need no trouble, see?" Tall George said yet again. Over the course of nearly two hours, the five words had almost become a mantra to the physically imposing man, flint-like eyes darting about as though the boogeyman was going to crawl up out of the walls.

"So you run through old towns, watering holes, stash your product," Morgan said, studying a large legal pad. Though the capable profiler liked to depend on his memory for such things, the biker had spewed forth so much information in the last couple hours that Morgan doubted even Reid could have caught it all. "Then on the sale trip, you pick up the cut dope and load it to go to market."

"Like I said, four trips a year. One a quarter. Never keep to the same schedule, and different bikes carry different stuff."

"I heard." Tall George had confessed to helping carry cocaine, marijuana, heroin and an odd assortment of bogeys designed to throw police and other officials off their trail. "And the girl?"

"Not talking about her, unless you're gonna hook me back up with her," the biker said flatly. "Nice piece of ass, she was."

"George, I gotta say, that person I was talking about earlier?"

"What about him?"

"Well, kidnapping and raping girls isn't on their list of 'approved activities'." Morgan leaned in, genuinely curious. "There's gotta be dozens of girls waitin' in line to be with you, man—why take one against their will?"

Tall George grinned slowly. "I like a challenge. Plus it's about ownership."

Morgan wanted to vomit. Blinking his eyes once, he willed himself to settle down and continue the investigation, though the profiler wanted nothing more than to spend five minutes alone with the cameras off with the despicable being. "Anyway," he said, "back to the trips…"

"Your friends? Probably learning about 'ownership' the hard way."

"Like I said," Morgan redirected, his voice growing louder and more irate. "Back to the trips…"

-----

Napierville was exactly as Gail Hathaway described—a one-horse town that looked like time had passed it by. Big Dog pulled forward into the main intersection of the settlement, its lone blinking light the only sign that life still stirred around these parts.

"Spread out," the leader said, swinging his arm and forefinger in a wide circle. "Poke around in everything that's abandoned and let's _try_ to ask permission to poke around the rest."

"Try?" Rossi called back as the two bikes containing five searchers killed their engines.

"Some of the boys forget this isn't the Wild West," Big Dog explained. "Now, there've been no complaints, but one time Tiny and John Boy accidentally leveled half a house because they weren't careful. Fortunately, the owners hated the work being done on the place and used the incident as an excuse to fire the contractor that was screwing them. Lead to a nice fraud bust, too."

"Fraud?" Emily asked.

"Seems the contractor had a habit of doing shoddy work and charging top dollar," Big Dog clarified. "Plus he skipped out on utility hookups."

"Nice indeed," Hotch seconded.

"You bet. We're a little unique, but then again, so's your friends over there," the bike leader acknowledged, pointing in the direction of Chase and Oliver. The pair quickly skirted the perimeter of an old mechanic's garage, falling in when the signal was given by a large, stocky, red-haired biker that went by the name Tiny. A few moments later, the three exited the building, shaking their heads and moving on to the next.

Within two hours the town had been searched. The few inhabitants of the town told of the renegade biker group driving through, but not stopping this time as they usually did. "Seemed like they were in a bit of a hurry," the bartender told them as Hotch interviewed him. "Not looking to tear the place apart like always."

"But they stopped?" Emily asked.

"Oh, sure. Only about ten of them. Usually there's about thirty or so, causing racket and chaos." The bartender sighed, rubbing a palm on the large bald spot on top of his head. "I really should find a better location, but…I've grown up here all my life, and as far as travelers go, this is the best spot in miles for business."

"Just not a lot of law, huh?" Emily commented.

"No, ma'am. That, there is not. Why I keep Betsy up there in pristine condition." The barkeep pointed up to a loaded Winchester rifle that glittered in the light. "Old Mrs. Winchester might have a few more houseguests before I get done, that I promise."

"I'm sorry?"

The bartender smiled. "Local joke. Look her up sometime."

The agents thanked the barkeep and headed back outside, where the rest of the bikers, plus Chase, Oliver and Rossi had gathered. "Any luck?" Rossi asked, calling out from the street.

Hotch shook his head. "They stopped, but in less numbers and not for very long. Bartender says that's not usual for them."

"Means that they might be in Comstock Valley," a long, slender man answering to the name John Boy reasoned. "I can tell you, there's not so much as a fart from a rat's ass hidin' in this place."

"They split up," Tiny concurred, joining forces with his partner. "Sent a batch in every direction to keep us guessing."

"Well, Blondie's leading the rest up to Comstock Valley now, and she's got Junior and Red Joe with her. Saddle in, and we'll try to catch up!"

-----

Kyle ran. He ran ahead, pushing the limits of his legs until he felt they might break. Long, ragged breaths seemed to explode from his chest, and the land before him opened up to a wasteland of scrub grass and rolling hills. The investigator didn't dare look back for fear he would find the worst—his pursuers gaining up on both him and Reid.

Nearby, Kyle saw glimpses of Reid's plain shirt flapping as the profiler raced for his life. Wide eyes caught Kyle's attention, and their question was obvious—_where do we go now?_

In truth, Kyle didn't know. The abandoned town was an aberration on the edge of a giant scrubby wasteland that stretched out for what seemed like miles. He didn't even remember what had made him think running had been a good idea in the first place. Kyle only remembered the look on the biker's face as soon as the man had 'caught' the pair on the bike—it had etches of being a death stare if ever he saw one.

"Keep going," the investigator eked out, his voice garbled and clumsy. Reid merely nodded near him and kept pace.

Soon something grabbed Kyle by the shoulder, pulling the man to the ground with a rough tug. Bits of sand and dirt were shoved into his mouth as his face connected with the hard ground, and Kyle coughed violently in an attempt to try and spit the vile substance out. His shoulders connected harshly with the ground several more times as the biker who'd been pursuing him took out his frustration on the bound investigator.

Nearby, Reid managed to make a few more steps. He'd heard Kyle fall to the ground, giving a strangled cry, and the sounds of someone beating him. Part of the profiler wanted to run back and help him, but the greater part of him said _Kyle's best chance is getting help—help you can get if you escape._ Suddenly, something seized Reid's arm as it swung back to stabilize the lanky man's gait.

"Aha!" an evil voice chortled, one mixed with anger and rage and triumph. "Thought you were gettin' somewhere, didn't ya?"

"Get _off_ me!" Reid cried out, struggling to wriggle out of the man's grasp.

"Not so fast, cop," the biker growled. "Me and mine, we're not finished with you yet."

The words made Reid's mind fall back to another point in time, where he'd also been concerned for not only himself but for the welfare of another. "No," he breathed, his eyes growing wide. "No, I won't…"

"Come on," the biker spat, dragging Reid over to where Kyle lay pinned on the ground. Shoving the profiler forward, his captor barked, "Tell Marlee Matlin there that he's coming back with us, and that he's gonna behave. Boss wants a talk with him."

Reid's eyes widened. _Oh, shit,_ he thought. _That can't be good…_

"Go on, tell him!"

Shaking, the profiler's hands began to speak.


	8. Chapter 8

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Sit down," the biker who'd grabbed Reid barked, shoving the profiler roughly into a makeshift chair. The man holding Kyle merely shoved the investigator onto his knees, as there was no other chair available.

"I…I could stand," Reid said simply, his voice low but surprisingly calm.

"Yeah, right. Then you run."

"Look at it this way: your boss wants to talk to my friend. My friend needs to see his face to go along with the signs I'm using, because I don't speak sign language all that well. Otherwise…"

A weathered hand grabbed Reid by the collar, twisting the cloth of the plain shirt so tightly that the agent started to sputter and choke for a breath of air. "You'll talk to him," the large biker said firmly. "And you'll do it right, too, or else there's no use in keepin' you. Got me?"

Brown eyes flickered down at Kyle, who was constantly moving his head in an attempt to figure out what was going on. His blue eyes caught Reid's, which were full on trepidation and panic. "What's wrong?" he asked, using his voice. It was cracked and barely intelligible.

Reid shook his head. –Nothing,-- he said, making the correct sign.

The look on his friend's face said _I don't believe you._

"Well, well, well," a loud, booming voice said. The cold tinge it harbored made Reid shiver from scalp to toe tip. "Seems someone got up early."

"What did he say?" Kyle asked, his voice getting worse.

--He says we got up early.—

--So what?-- Kyle's moving hands made a few of the rousing bikers take notice, and a few chuckled.

"Kid can't even hear," one man said, his round face full of curious amusement. "How the hell can he be a cop?"

Kyle's eyes flared. –I can see more than you can hear,-- he signed angrily, looking up at Reid. –Tell them!—

"What?" the round-headed man chortled. "He not like my description?"

"He says he can see more than you can hear," Reid replied. Kyle's hands moved purposefully again, and now the agent couldn't help but indulge in a chuckle of his own. "Like the fact that you obviously had a rough night," he translated.

"Really? That so?" Now the biker and his relatively-awake friends were curious.

Kyle began to sign again, and Reid translated. "You lost your hat from last night. Where, I don't know, but it couldn't have been very good to begin with if you lost it that quick. The red lips couldn't have come from anything in the bar, so you had a woman somewhere…though I don't see one hanging around."

"That's enough," the biker snapped as his companions began to whistle and catcall loudly.

"Plus there's your pants," Kyle continued with Reid's help. "I'm not even going to touch that one."

The round face looked down and saw that not only were his jeans unzipped, but that they were about halfway down the man's legs, revealing an unusual choice of undergarment for those of the male persuasion.

"Either you were stoned out of your mind when you hit the local Kmart or there's something you're not telling your friends here," Kyle finished, leaving Reid to voice his words.

"Fuckin' prick--"

"Ooh, Jake, watch yourself," one of the men cackled, his voice sounding to Reid like nails on a chalkboard. "Might give old Floyd there some ideas…"

Jake's round face turned beet-red. In one swift motion, his hand connected with Kyle's face and the investigator found himself spluttering in a heap on the splintered floor.

"Enough!" Boss Salvador shouted, and instantly the room fell silent. A deeply tanned, spidery hand seized Kyle's shoulder and yanked him from the floor, tossing the deaf man back into the chair he'd abruptly vacated. A pair of onyx eyes glared intently at the silent man, and Kyle involuntarily shivered a little, the thrill racing up his spine. Next to him, Reid willed himself to remain outwardly impassive and motionless. "Now, Chaplin," the bike leader spat, using the name like an epithet, "you tell me, right now, how much those fuckin' pig friends of yours know about our business."

Kyle watched Reid's interpretation. –Four trips a year,-- he signed. –Some coke, some heroin, some designer. Back roads, no buyer information.—

_And they'll be looking for us,_ Reid thought privately.

--We know you're not done yet, either,-- Kyle added. –This is your last run until winter.—

A hushed murmur began to swell inside the dusty, ill-kept room, and Reid's soft eyes took in the faces of angry bikers processing the information he'd just given voice to. He himself looked at Kyle, and added a quick sign of his own: --Why so much?—

Kyle just shrugged. Bright eyes told Reid what he himself hadn't added earlier.

"Boss, we can't stay here," one man, the 'warden' from earlier, said finally. "I'm not afraid of no cops, but we don't need the trouble with these new buyers…"

The murmur began to rise to a soft roar.

"Shut up!" Boss said. Then he cast a hard appraising eye on his prisoners. "The pigs will stay clear."

Kyle looked up at Reid. –What did he say?—

--He said our people will stay clear.—

The short, chopped bark startled even the agent, who was used to Kyle's laughter. –Is that right?—

Reid shrugged.

"What's so funny, _ese_?" Boss shouted, picking Kyle up by the collar. The investigator scowled in pure hatred at the motion and picked his hands up, signing a little more. Turning to Reid, the biker heard, "He says you've got more problems than the cops."

"That so?"

A moment passed. "Yes," Reid said finally, his eyes never moving form Kyle's deft fingers. "He says his people aren't concerned too much with the _how._ Or the _why._ They just want him back." Kyle's eyes added _and you too _for Reid's benefit. The agent worked to hide the small measure of relief he felt.

"I want this done," Boss said finally. "Boys, saddle up. Chaplin here rides with me. Jake, you take the fed. Anything goes down, and these two go first."

Reid didn't like the sound of that.

-----

"Garcia, I need you to look up known drug runners in Alaska," Morgan said into his phone.

"They don't have enough white powdery stuff in the land of the midnight sun?" the tech joked.

"Baby girl, this is serious. Our biker gang just took Reid and Kyle Parker as trophies."

The round-faced woman became all business. "Known drug dealers, traffickers—do we know what kind we're looking for?"

"Heroin, Garcia," JJ piped up from her seat at the long table. "The group was running a shipment of pure heroin to be cut in Alaska."

"Coordinate with narcotics, anyone who might know something about what's needed to make that happen." Morgan had been involved in a couple of drug-related busts in his time with the police, but the exact process of what was being used now to cut the product was a mystery to him.

"Got it. Be right back." The screen went blank.

JJ sighed. "How many more interviews are there?"

"Only five more," Morgan said, "but I think our best information came right from Tall George."

"No kidding. Remind me to send Josh Hollenbeck a note." The liaison was still amazed at how quickly the imposing biker had cracked under Morgan's pressure, and how little effort it had taken to do so.

The profiler frowned. "It was almost too easy," he mused.

"Maybe your theory worked?"

Morgan shook his head. "This guy's afraid of something, JJ. I'd really like to know what that _something_ is."


	9. Chapter 9

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

Blondie had never seen such a deserted spot as Comstock Valley was. _Jesus, the girl was right,_ the policewoman thought. _It's as if the thirties came and went and preserved the whole place like a museum. _The dirt road ahead of her showed signs of disturbance, and in front of her two other bikers—two tall men called Junior and Red Joe, respectively—were already walking themselves through the scene.

"They were here, Blondie," Red Joe said, pointing at the masses of clumped dirt and skid marks. "I'd say they regrouped here." Long red hair glistened in the midday sun, and a dark pair of glasses and black leather hid bright gray eyes and tanned skin.

"Kyle? And the doctor?"

"Best guess is they were with them," Reid Joe said in resignation. Pointing a long finger up towards what looked like a wide, old shop, he said, "The bulk of the footprints go in here. I was just about to head in."

Blondie looked at Gail, who was looking at the building apprehensively. "Something wrong, hon?" she asked.

"This was the place," Gail said. "Where—where they kept me. There's a big room in the back."

"Show us," Red Joe said, and the young woman started up the rickety steps towards the front door.

"Where's Junior?" Blondie said.

"Saw some tracks leading away from the bike stop," her companion replied. "Said he wanted a better look. He's armed, but I tried to get him to see reason."

"He won't," Blondie said as she inhaled the stale air trapped in the ancient shop. "Takes it hard when a bust goes bad. You know that."

"I told him to call Big Dog, get everyone up to speed. He was on the phone with 'em when you showed up."

"Over here," Gail called out. "I think I found something!"

-----

The heat of the California sun beat down mercilessly onto Kyle's back. His shoulders ached from being forced into one position for so long, and his left arm was beginning to blister from the copious amounts of UV and Vitamin D it had received since he'd been forced onto the back of Boss Salvador's dresser. There had been no stopping since the group had peeled out of the deserted ghost town some three hours earlier, and Kyle wondered if there would be a stop soon. A pair of numb legs and an aching backside pleaded for it.

Bright blue eyes glanced over burned shoulders, and the investigator could make out Reid's long hair flapping against his diamond-shaped face. The look of determination set into the doctor's features was anything but light. The bike the tall man was perched precariously on the back of seemed small considering the height discrepancy, and Kyle could see Reid's feet brushing the pavement of the highway in spots.

_That's it,_ Kyle thought. Letting his anger take over, he picked up his hands and poked the bike leader in the shoulder as hard as he could. The thin man's head turned, but Kyle couldn't get a good enough look at his lips to read what he was shouting.

"Stop!" the Virginian shouted, hoping his voice was clear. To clarify his point, he also made the sign for 'stop'—the side of his right hand slamming into his left palm. Ahead of him, the teardrop-shaped head turned back towards the road, stringy hair flying like the tails of a wind sock, and the deaf man could feel the machine underneath him pick up even more speed than it had already. There was no way he could know for sure, but Kyle swore that the bike leader was laughing.

The stretch of highway before them curved around the mountain, and Kyle took in the sight of pine trees and broadleaf limbs that mercifully provided a second's worth of shade. The smell of water hit his nostrils, and Kyle saw a flash of something bright glint up from the earthen shelf where the highway sat. The sight of water streaming north towards a thick wood almost made the investigator wish he had a camera.

_My ass is sore, my arms are worse than one of Chase's turkeys, and a psychopath and his merry band of murders and rapists are dragging me to Alaska, _Kyle thought grimly. _Add to that I'm about a hair's breadth away from being turned into hamburger by a bike accident on the road, and yeah, I'm having the time of my life._

The bike traveled northward, passing through more woods and hilled countryside. Kyle thought about the group's current plans, made just before the engines had started—the ones Reid managed to translate for him. _–They're taking us to finish their 'run,'—_ Reid had signed, the agent's face full of silent anger and determination. _–Says that their buyers will get a kick out of the 'insurance policy' we're providing.—_

_--What did they say about the buyers?— _

_--Nothing I could pick up. Just that we're expected in four days in Fairbanks.-- _The grim look turned even more black. _–Apparently we're behind schedule.—_

Kyle focused back onto the present, and the sight of the water made him realize it had been a long time since either he or Reid had been allowed to 'take care' of themselves. A tug on his waist reminded him that a simple leap off the seat he was perched on was not possible, and the thick rubber stayed firmly bolted in place as Boss Salvador expertly rounded yet another corner. _What I wouldn't give for my knife about now,_ he groused silently.

Suddenly the bike started to slow. The seat underneath Kyle seemed to jerk forward with each application of the machine's brakes, and finally the vehicle tipped on its kickstand and the driver slid off. Kyle knew he was saying something, but once again, he was not looking at the deaf man to give him a good view of his lips.

"Hey, look at me!" the investigator yelled, hoping his voice was loud. "I can't understand you if you look the other way!" He pointed firmly to the thin leader and then at himself, making a point to accentuate the concept of 'eye contact.' Kyle hadn't bothered with sign, not because he didn't want to speak as he would normally but because the movements would be lost on the outlaw in any case.

Cold eyes moved forward, a look of pure contempt drawing nearer Kyle's line of sight. "Get off," Boss said, jabbing his finger at the treeline near the ridge. "Five minutes, and don't get cute."

_Finally,_ Kyle thought. _He realizes people need a break. _Swiveling his head around him as he dismounted the motorcycle, he saw several of the bikers stepping forward to relieve themselves. A couple bikers pulled out clear plastic bottles to catch some of the stream water falling over the side in a thin waterfall. On one side Kyle found Reid scanning the group around himself and edging closer and closer to a small 'corner' made up of the ridge and a thick pocket of trees. The sizable 'warden' that had woken them earlier that morning was standing close to the profiler, matching each step that Reid took. _We're not getting out that way,_ Kyle realized, understanding what his friend was attempting to do. _They'll be on us in five minutes…_

Suddenly Kyle found he had a new 'friend' shadowing him as well—the new second-in-command, it seemed; the man called Jake. No matter how Kyle moved, the large man seemed in step with him, ready to overpower the investigator should he think about trying to escape. _Okay, you've made your point,_ the deaf man thought, heaving a large sigh. He turned towards the ridgeline and decided to 'take care' of himself while he had the chance.

Once finished, Kyle managed to catch Reid's eye. He made the sign for water, and the agent's long hair wiggled up and down in approval. Turning on his heel, he stared Jake in the eye. "Water," he said, hoping his voice was clear.

"What?"

"Water," Kyle said again. "Please." He made the signs to match.

"The hell?"

A shadow cast over Kyle's head, and the look on the biker's face improved somewhat—he wasn't happy, but he wasn't confused either. Soon a small container of water found itself shoved into Kyle's hands. "Drink," the large man said, glaring at him. "And share."

Kyle took a long pull off the makeshift glass, letting the icy water roll down his parched throat. He suddenly realized just how hungry he was, but a quick look at the rest of the group told him dinner was not forthcoming. Another pull from the glass worked its way down Kyle's system, and he then passed the container to Reid, who took it gratefully.

Strong hands seized the investigator by the arms, and Kyle knew he'd cried out on some level from the pain of pressure being exerted onto his now badly burned forearms. He thought he saw the words _saddle up_ come from his warden's lips, but Kyle couldn't be sure. He tried to resist being pushed back towards the dresser he'd been perched on most of the day, dragging his feet in refusal. Something hard pressed flush with his back, and the investigator instantly began to cooperate. _Don't need to be shot too, on top of everything else,_ he thought.

Once Kyle was strapped into the iron horse he unwillingly rode, he craned his neck to see Reid forcibly shoved back into his assigned seat. Soon the engine vibrated violently into life underneath him, and the posse started back up the highway headed north.


	10. Chapter 10

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Boy, Gail wasn't kidding," Emily said as she took in her first sight of Comstock Valley. Scrub grass and dilapidated buildings surrounded the arriving party like an ominous presence, and it was one Emily couldn't shake. "I think even the ghosts left."

Up ahead, Big Dog pointed out towards an expanse of flat land just a little northwest of their current vantage point. "Junior says that there were footprints heading that way. Looked like someone was making a run out of Dodge."

"I'd like a look at that," Chase said, hopping off the back of the police leader's Fat Boy.

"Me too," Rossi said.

As the pair headed out, the remaining parties once again split into teams to search the rest of the buildings. "Blondie and Red Joe took this one," Big Dog told Hotch and Emily. "I'm thinkin' there's more in here than the rest, but…"

Three pairs of footsteps embarked onto the rickety wood stairs, quickly followed by a fourth. "I've got a funny feeling about this place," Oliver Lawrence said as he made his way through the splintered door.

"Funny how?" Emily said. Dark eyes took in the sight of thick stirred dust laying in clumps over the worn floor. The impressions of bodies lay faintly outlined in the light particle debris, and the sight of discarded glasses and liquor bottles off to the left of the grand room near the entry made Emily grimace. "Looks like someone had a decent breakfast," she quipped, gingerly pointing at the haphazard array.

"I can bet it wasn't Reid or Kyle," Oliver said.

"How so?"

"Reid doesn't drink. _At all._ Not after…not after Miami." Oliver swallowed thickly and then continued. "Kyle never did. Claims there's better ways to get a headache." The investigator pointed at the remnants of the bar. "If they'd have forced them to drink, I guarantee there'd be more liquor spilled than there is."

Emily looked, noting the few small dark spots of liquid settling themselves in the worn wood. "Nice," she said. "At least they're sober."

"But for how long?" Oliver countered. "Emily, we don't know just how much 'product' they're carrying. Or how much they saved for 'personal use'." The man's eyes flickered a little, and the profiler suddenly realized just how worried Oliver was.

"I don't think…"

"We know." When Emily's eyes furrowed questioningly, he clarified, "About Reid's 'little problem'. Truth be told, I think he knows we do."

"Oliver…"

"He's getting help, he's clean, he's still one hell of an agent and profiler and he's a good friend. Long as he stays that way, none of us have to come out and say anything, I think." The look of conviction on the former FBI agent's face was more than convincing.

"Let's hope the status quo doesn't change," the woman said finally.

-----

The room was cavernous, with dozens of colored spots ingrained in the disintegrating carpet. A small electric lantern lay tipped on its side, and Gail shivered as she recalled numerous 'incidents' that had taken place within these walls. In her hands lay a thin black wallet.

"They were here," she said quietly.

Blondie and Red Joe scanned the doors. "This one back here's set until the Second Coming," the man said, shoving his thin frame against it for good measure. "Guaranteed, this ain't coming loose."

"There's a bar lock on the other side of this door," Blondie added. "They weren't getting out this way either."

"No, ma'am, they wouldn't," Gail seconded. "I tried, more than once."

Just then two pairs of footsteps echoed in the narrow hallway, and the bikers pulled out their sidearms. "Gail, get behind me," Blondie hissed, and the girl quickly obeyed. The air grew heavy with tension as the steps rapidly approached. As they crossed the threshold, both Blondie and Red Joe called out, "Police! Freeze!"

"Woman, thank God it's you," a familiar voice called out. "I'd have like to have shot you for a minute there."

"Dog, I swear to God," Blondie said, the tension evaporating at once. The sight of her husband and Agent Hotchner stepping in the room was one she was glad to see. "Don't you know better?"

"You might have been one of them," Big Dog pointed out simply.

"They're long gone," Red Joe said. "Problem is, we don't have a stop point for them."

"Alaska," Gail chirped.

"Well, that helps our friend out here," Big Dog said, looking at Hotch, "but not so much for our case."

"Gail, was there anywhere that the group liked to stop on the highway? A place between towns?" Hotch inquired.

The young woman shrugged. "Mostly they'd just pull to the side, find a place to have a pee. Made life difficult."

Hotch's lips thinned. He looked around the wide room, noticing the small lantern and the bright light shining overhead. "Generator?" he wondered, pointing at the light.

"Solar, most like. Probably did that themselves," Red Joe replied.

"Switch's outside," Gail added. "They liked to keep me in the dark."

The profiler then noticed the thin wallet Gail held in her hands. "May I?" he asked.

"Sure," Gail said, handing the object over to him.

The leather was worn in places. The window held a plastic card with a photograph of a sandy-haired man with bright blue eyes. Hotch recognized the unique license as belonging to Kyle Parker. "Either he left this on purpose, or someone got careless," he said finally.

"Never seen a PI license like that before," Blondie said. "There's no badge or anything."

"Well, then, Chase and her boys aren't exactly 'run of the mill,' there, sweets," Big Dog countered. "All that government work."

"He's right," Hotch seconded. "I've seen this before. They work for so many agencies that they finally just standardized their licenses, I think." The profiler almost willed Reid's own credentials to appear, but there was no such luck. Looking over at Gail Hathaway, he asked, "Gail, where would they go next?"

The young woman closed her eyes, her whole being deep in thought. She shook her head. "Across the border, into Oregon," she said finally. "There's a couple of towns, but…I need a map." She sighed. "Parks might be overrun with 'em as well. They don't need much; just a place to lay low on the road. Lets 'em 'party' more too."

As the quartet headed out the door, Hotch pulled out his cell phone. The display gave him a dirty look. _So much for a call to Garcia,_ he thought. _It'll have to wait until we get back out on the road…_

-----

"Hey, Junior," Chase called out towards the tall man in front of her, his salt-and-pepper hair glistening in the steadily sinking sun.

"Ghost Lady," the man acknowledged. His mind lay further to the north, pondering a set of tracks nearly blown over by a stiff breeze. As the investigator and Rossi took stances on either side, Junior said aloud, "They got about another two hundred yards before those assholes caught up to them."

Rossi walked out to the end of the trail; the mounds of freshly disturbed earth and huge swipes in the scrub grass told him a story he didn't like. "They put up a fight," he said.

"I wouldn't expect less," Chase said. She was facing towards the bike stop, doing a little calculating of her own. "There's nothing out here," she said, turning to face her companions. "Kyle would know better than just to run towards nothing…"

"More than likely they saw it as a chance to get away," Rossi countered. "Even nowhere's better than staying with someone who's threatening you."

A small puff of air exited the young woman's nostrils. "That's not what I meant." A hand waved over the barren landscape like a tour guide's. "There's no cover. There's no hiding place. There's no _anything._"

"She's right," Junior said. "Best places to hide were in the town—or what's left of it. Not out here."

"So why did they run that way?" Chase wondered. "They had to know they'd get caught again."

"Not just that, folks," the biker added. Rossi looked up at the man, a slightly puzzled look on his face. "They'd get caught, sure. What bothers me is that they knew that and ran this way anyhow."

Rossi started to say something, but then stopped. _Reid would know that too,_ he thought. _An escape's no good if… _

"…it's not really an escape."

"Huh?" Green eyes swiveled over towards the profiler in an instant.

"He's right," Rossi said, pointing at Junior. "There's no help to be had this way. So why come this far out? Answer's simple—it was never about escape."

"Then what…" Chase's line of thought moved faster. "Damn. Kyle would have tried to take a bike! One will get you twenty they got caught doing that!"

"And ran in the only direction they could," Rossi finished. "Going into town wasn't really an option; not with the gang closing in from that end."

"Makes sense. I mean, even if they managed to get away from them, there would have been no way for them to let us know they were even here," Chase finished. "Who knows how long they would have had to fend for themselves—and in what condition?"

"Looks to me like they got roughed up a little," Junior said firmly. "The tracks say as much. But I don't think they're bad off."

"Depends on your version of 'bad off,'" Rossi muttered.

Just then the sound of voices grew louder towards the old shop behind them. "Sounds like we're heading out. Like to know where, though," Junior said.

"Here's hoping someone left a clue behind," Chase said, her voice tinged with concern. _Tell me you left something, guys,_ she thought. _Or that Gail can pick their trail from the thousands out there…_


	11. Chapter 11

**Usual disclaimers.

* * *

**

Dusk had set over the deserted stretch of pine and flat land. The sounds of the river, now winnowed down to a mere stream, trickled far in the background. A warm light danced off the metal bracelets that kept Reid helpless, and the warm crackles were doing little to stave off the chill in the night air. Thin shoulders shivered as the cold worked up his spine. Next to him, Kyle Parker sat miserably, his blue eyes focused on the dancing flames in front of him. The investigator tried stretching out his sore legs, but a quick boot to the shin only caused Kyle to cry out.

"Hey, leave him alone," Reid said, his voice belying his current irritability. The taller agent's legs had been folded up like an accordion underneath him on account of the bikers 'wanting them in one place.'

"Shut the hell up," the man called Jake snapped. "Be damn lucky they weren't broke."

Reid considered his options. The pack of bikers had splintered off into smaller groups or pairs, but they still surrounded the spot where the main campfire burned brightly into the night. A thick stand of pines surrounded the area, and it would be easy to get lost in them. The agent turned towards his companion, who was rubbing the spot where he'd been kicked only a few moments before.

--Kyle, can you stand up?— Reid signed.

The blue eyes furrowed slightly. Sandy hair tipped up and down from the top of the investigator's head. –You have a plan?—

--Maybe.-- The distance to the nearest stand of pines was a good hundred feet, and Reid knew that his knees were still sore from the constant jolting of his feet on pavement. –I wish they were drunk.—

--One good thing about stopping so sudden,-- Kyle replied with a small smile. –No beer.—

--It's not the liquor I'm worried about.—

--I know.—

Reid looked at his friend. –Know what?—

--That you have a certain chip in your pocket. We know why.-- Kyle shrugged. –Never been a problem with us, you know? That part of your history.—

The agent made a mental note to add the Virginians to his list of 'people to talk to' about the subject. –I'm afraid what'll happen if they make us…--

--Me too.—

"Interestin' conversation, ladies?" a voice cackled evilly. Reid looked up and saw one of the other bikers—a long, thin man with defined arms and missing teeth—standing just on the other side of the fire.

"We're fine." _I'd be better, asshole, if I wasn't freezing my tail off in the middle of the woods with no coat on. Could stand something to eat, too._

A long growl erupted from Kyle's stomach.

"Maybe Chaplin there needs a pick-me-up," the biker said, his words slurring just a little.

"He's fine." The tone in Reid's voice teetered on the edge of threatening. _Go away, idiot, and leave us space to wander over towards those trees…_

"Hey, guys!" the biker yelled. "The broken kid needs a little somethin'!"

Reid quickly flew onto his feet, instantly regretting the move—his knees threatened to buckle from the stress they were already under. "Don't," he growled, standing over the bewildered investigator.

"Don't _what,_ huh?" a cold voice said firmly. Reid spun his head to lock eyes with the leader of the bike gang.

"Leave him alone," Reid demanded. "Leave us both alone."

The whole clearing exploded into gales of inebriated laughter, much of it brought on by the copious amounts of product they had partaken in. "_Ese,_ we'll leave you alone as much as you like," Boss Salvador said, his own chuckles winding down. "Until you start to look fun, that is."

Reid bristled. He did not intend to let these men cow him. Standing straighter, he said, "I need a bathroom."

"So you can make yourself pretty?" another biker called out, bringing on more gales of laughter. The agent let that comment slide, keeping his focus on the leader of the group.

"Jake!" The husky biker came forward, looking pissed. "Take Floyd and make sure that our 'guest' finds his way back. Those trees look a little too inviting, you ask me."

Reid wanted to blanch. _Of course the man would pick the two largest and fastest guys in the place to 'escort' me,_ he reasoned grimly. _Not to mention one who seems to be firmly playing for the 'other team.' _The sound of the men's footsteps prodded Reid to hurry and take his leave, a confused and slightly terrified Kyle watching helplessly as he walked. The profiler longed to tell his friend that it would be all right, but both Jake and Floyd had taken it upon themselves to grab the younger man's arms as a precaution.

_I need a better lay of the land,_ Reid reasoned. _I find an out, and I'm taking it—and Kyle, too. _The sound of voices grew dimmer and fainter as he was marched towards the treeline, and the wheels in his mind began to turn ever faster.

-----

"Move." The hard shove on Reid's shoulder stung a little, but the agent managed to stay upright. Dried pine needles made purchase with his cheek, and the scraped skin felt anything but pleasant.

"Clumsy, this one," the man called Floyd chortled. Then, in a lower voice, he added, "Pretty thing, though…"

Reid bristled, stopping on a dime.

"Not feeling the same about our boy here?" Jake teased, the malice in his voice evident.

"I don't need an audience," the profiler mumbled, his eyes continually searching the perimeter. The stream babbled happily nearby, just a few feet from the ridge the unlikely trio cautiously traversed. _If only I could get them closer,_ Reid thought. _The ground's not all that stable…_

"Here," Jake snapped. "Be quick about it."

"Turn around."

"Shy, boy?" Floyd's dancing jade eyes twinkled lasciviously, taking in Reid's figure. "Not anything there I haven't seen before."

A chill ran up the profiler's back. "I am not about to…"

"Shut the hell up and get this done," Jake barked. "You're gonna stay where we can see you. Wouldn't wanna leave Chaplin to fend for himself, would you?" The maliciousness spread to the biker's round face. "Cause I foresee an 'accident' happenin' real fast if this doesn't get done."

Brown eyes peered over the ridge, taking in the twenty-foot drop to the stream below. A few clods of dry sod and pebbles edged off the side, tumbling towards the inviting rush of clear water. _Focus, Spencer,_ the agent mused. _Gotta get them over the edge. _ Reid took a few small steps forward and took care of himself as best he could.

"Why the hell Boss wanna keep 'im?" Floyd wondered aloud. "I mean, he's cute an' all, but…"

"Impressin' the buyers, I guess," Jake said. Reid's ears perked up at that. "What's better than gettin' a couple pigs to seal the deal? Though, personally, I'd have kept the girl. Now _there_ was a thing of beauty."

"Whenever Tall George wasn't doin' her, you mean."

"She'd have fit nicely in with me." A loud, impatient sigh rose from the husky man's throat. "But now we got these two. And one of 'em's broke."

Reid gave a small smile. _Not as much as you think._ He finished closing up his pants and started to turn towards the right, edging his way slowly towards a forked tree that took up quite a bit of the flat path along the ridge. _If I can just get on the other side of that…_

"The hell you think you're goin'?" Thick hands grasped Reid's upper arm roughly, nearly cutting off the circulation to the area. "Gettin' cute, huh?"

_One more step. One more step and…_

The ground began to shift underneath the heavier man's feet. Reid braced himself, waiting for the inevitable fall. However, the biker merely moved his feet deftly up to more solid ground, dragging his unwilling prisoner with him. _Damn,_ the profiler thought resignedly.

"Nice trick, cop," Jake growled, pushing his meaty face much too close to Reid's own for the younger man's liking. "Floyd, take him. I think he's gonna need more watchin' from now on."

"My pleasure," the other biker said.

----

Kyle had been staring into the fire. The dancing flames made him think of the fireplace in his father's house, when he and Landon had taken turns roasting marshmallows off steel sticks at Christmas. He silently was grateful that Landon was not there with him—God only knew what his little brother might try. _I can't believe he's got it in his head to join the business,_ the investigator thought, shaking his head a little.

Something sat down hard next to him, and Kyle shied away from the touch. Embroidered leather glistened in the warm light, and the steel tips caught the glow within its mirrored polish. Blue eyes looked up and around, fending off a chill that had been creeping up his back. _Reid's been gone quite a while,_ he reasoned, mentally kicking himself for not finding some way to measure the time. _Maybe he…?_

Suddenly the trees began to quiver near their base, and the tall figure of Reid nearly fell head-over-heels as he was shoved forward. The biker Kyle knew as Floyd seemed to have too happy a look in his eye. Cautiously, he took in the sight of the profiler on the earthen floor; saw Reid scowl at the red-bearded man with contempt. The man called Jake burst out from the treeline, his face as red as the other biker's beard. Kyle watched lips move, but could not decipher the words spewing forth.

_What the hell happened?_ the investigative analyst wondered. He pushed himself to his feet only to feel a spasm of pain wrench through his shoulders as strong hands firmly clamped down onto them. Anger coursed through Kyle's veins, and the smaller man struggled to free himself from the vicelike grip.

"Let me go!" Kyle shouted---or at least, he hoped he shouted. His voice wasn't nearly as good as his brother's; the younger Parker had that one advantage over the investigator. A sharp backhand stopped him from calling out further. Kyle could only watch as the hard leader of the group used his embroidered boots to take several savage kicks at the profiler lying curled in the dirt. After a while, the beating stopped.

Kyle looked desperately at the enraged bikers, hoping to latch onto what the problem had been. He glanced at Reid, wishing that the young profiler would pick himself up or even stir a little—the blows Reid had taken had been pretty intense. Soon the taller man was dragged into a corner of the campsite, his head lolling on thin shoulders.

--"What did you do to him?"— Kyle asked, putting his hands to work. A sandy head craned towards the spot where Reid now lay while the investigator was forced back towards the fire. Kyle stopped short and twisted his shoulders, wriggling his way out of the biker's grip. He instantly tore towards the still figure of his friend. "Reid?" he asked as he knelt beside him, hoping his voice was coming through clearly. "Reid?"

Slowly, the long hair wriggled. A hand clasped Kyle's own; a light squeeze to tell the deaf man that the profiler was at least conscious. –What did you do?— the investigator managed to sign before being seized yet again.

Reid's hands listlessly crossed his torso, his hands balled into fists. The pair of arms then 'broke free' from each other. –Escape.-- Kyle saw that the agent was biting back the pain he was in from the beating. –Didn't work.—

A puff of air pushed out of the investigator's nostrils. _No kidding,_ he thought. The rough hands then yanked him away, dragging him further from the one person who mattered most to him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Sorry so short. RL and other things are getting in the way, but I will continue to update this fic as often as possible. :)

* * *

**

"I don't want to stop, people, but honestly I can't see my hands in front of my ass," Big Dog said as he justified pulling the group over for the night. "Not gonna help if we pass on by 'em and don't know it."

"They might be drivin' now, while we're sittin' on our backsides," Junior grumbled.

"No. Like as not they've stopped too," Rossi declared.

"Makes you so sure?"

"Well, they can't see either," Emily pointed out.

"Plus they're fighting Kyle," Chase added. "You really think he's going to go quietly?"

No one in the group could answer that. Nearby, Hotch was taking in the latest report from both Morgan and Garcia over the fuzzy laptop.

"Hotch, there's something we're missin', man," the sidelined profiler complained. "I mean, he just gave it up _way_ too fast. Like he's hiding something."

"What does your initial profile say?"

Morgan sighed. "He's a narcissist, in so far as it applies to dope and women. He likes control, but he's smart enough to cede that control to a more alpha figure in order to keep his standing." Silence loomed for a moment. "It's almost as if he prefers us having him than whatever it is he's scared of."

"We find what that is, we might be able to find Reid and Kyle."

The right screen spoke. "I've searched Alaska records for known drug runners, starting with heroin only—no luck. Working backwards into the more general, there's only a few, and no ties to bikers or the like. More one-person operations."

"Doesn't sound like our guys," Morgan agreed. "Sounds to me like they found another group."

"I can start looking into known gangs, biker or otherwise. No one stays off the grid forever."

_Except maybe Alaska,_ Hotch thought bitterly. "Look into old drug cases too, Garcia," he added. "Something with a group and a lot of product."

"Gotcha."

"And put out an APB on Reid and Kyle," Morgan said. If these guys are trying to cross with them, I want to know about it."

"Wait," Hotch said, his voice sharp. "Salvador might decide to kill them if he thinks he can't use them."

"So we let them run to Canada?" Morgan argued, incredulous.

"They might already be there," Hotch pointed out. "Best we can do then is hope the authorities there will help."

"I can make some calls, sir," Garcia said. "Warn RCMP and provincial police that they're headed that way…"

"Do it. Tell them there are two federal hostages among the group and to keep a distance if at all possible." Then, without warning, Hotch's screen went blank. The agent sighed, running a hand over a tired face.

"Any luck?" a familiar voice asked. Oliver Lawrence was sitting at a nearby table that lay just outside the small hole-in-the-wall the group had chosen for the night. A faraway look lingered in his blue eyes; it spoke volumes to the veteran profiler.

"Morgan thinks there's something not right about Tall George's statement, but other than that, no," Hotch admitted.

"Not right how?"

"Like there's something the man's afraid of, something he's not sharing."

A scowl flashed over Oliver's face. "Afraid of. There's a joke."

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard him, in the bar. That man's as afraid of something as Superman is." The derisive snort that shot out of the younger man's nostrils made a sort of miniature sound, like a small bull preparing for the cape. "What makes Morgan think he's afraid, may I ask?"

"He used some sort of trick our friend Josh taught him in interrogation, and instead of keeping up the act he broke in record time. At least, that's how Morgan describes it."

"Well, I've not known Morgan to lie." An audible sigh escaped Oliver's lips. "And the buyers?"

"Garcia's had no luck. Morgan's going to try again with Tall George and the rest tomorrow morning, but by then the gang could be anywhere."

"Well, we do know they're headed towards Alaska."

"True." Now it was Hotch's turn to sigh. "That's a lot of ground to cover."

"Not necessarily," Oliver countered. "We know they'll want an out-of-the-way place, which causes a few problems, but more likely they'll want things like food and supplies available. Now, I've not been to Alaska, but from what I understand even their 'big towns' aren't much."

"Still, there's the question of why."

"Why…oh. Why they're going in the first place." Oliver shrugged. "Garcia said she couldn't find anything about drug runners in the area?"

"Nothing that fits our profile," Hotch replied. His companion started studying the pebbles underneath his feet. Oliver's hands fidgeted, and the pent up nerves were beginning to show. "Oliver, they're all right."

"We don't know that." The bitterness was hard to hide. "For all we know…"

Hotch sighed. "I know."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Some references to my earlier fics "The Downstairs People" and "Don't You Know What the Night Can Do?," but it reads fine without the background knowledge. Sorry for the wait; the muse is fighting with real life and varying interests for control!

* * *

**

Kyle couldn't sleep. No sooner than his heavy eyelids would flutter closed, they kept violently opening with a thrill of cold fear washing down his spine. The persistent feeling of someone standing over him as he slept kept forcing his exhausted being into the land of wakefulness, and it was becoming a struggle to both find rest and continue to remain vigilant.

The stars twinkled faintly through the cover of the trees; their shadows turning the secluded spot the bikers had chosen for their sanctuary into an even more isolated and dreary locale. Kyle shivered as an icy tendril of breeze managed to find its way towards his legs and back. Nearby, he could just barely make out the still form of his friend lying under heavy guard.

_Escape,_ the Virginian thought. _Reid tried to escape. _Scenes played in the investigator's mind, one after another, on how that might have gone down. All Kyle knew for sure was that the man called Jake had come back in an extremely violent mood, taking his frustration out on Reid as much as he was allowed. Another cold blast hit, this time striking Kyle in the face. _Wish I'd have thought to bring my fuzzy pullover,_ he thought, thinking of the gray fleece he kept for weather such as this. _Didn't expect to be needing it, though…_

Blue eyes traveled over towards the motionless form of his friend, lying some fifty yards away. Kyle had briefly entertained the thought of going over to see Reid, but the two bikers standing guard over the agent compelled the investigator to remain where he was. Stars twinkled brightly overhead, illuminating the black sky overhead. The glow of the large bonfire some twenty yards in front of him helped to take the edge off the cover of night as well.

Kyle blinked his eyes, trying desperately to stay awake. _Last thing I need is to get hit in the head or moved with no bearing on where I'm going, _he thought. As the Virginian struggled to sit up, he could just make out two faces flickering against the firelight—those of Boss Salvador and of his new second-in-command. The younger man's face held nothing but contempt in it, while Boss Salvador seemed almost thoughtful. Kyle noticed the men's lips moving, and tried to read the conversation. The distance between him and his captors, coupled with the flickering flames, made the process more difficult than usual.

'…don't know why we kept 'em,' Jake complained. 'Not….than before, like with the girl.'

'Be a help getting us across the border,' Boss replied. 'Gotta clean 'em up, make 'em presentable.'

_Presentable for what? _Kyle thought. _By now there's surely an alert on me and Reid, so using us to get across won't be much help…_

'…..not gonna like it," Jake said, scowling further. "Not afraid of cops, but this guy…"

'Nothing we can't handle," Boss said, his face showing signs of worry itself. 'Cops aren't gonna come near. Not with our insurance.'

'Like to just pitch 'em both off a cliff…or at least, that fed…"

Kyle swallowed thickly. _What the hell happened in those woods?_

'You pitch them, I'll pitch your ass,' Boss said. 'Have your fun in Fairbanks, Jake. Not before.'

_We've got to get out of here,_ Kyle decided instantly. The thought of what kind of 'fun' Jake might decide on was not something the deaf man wanted to be around for. Screwing up his courage, he slowly tried to inch his way over towards Reid's still form. _I hope he's still breathing,_ Kyle worried, fear creeping over him. The beating the agent took had been pretty brutal, and the look on Reid's face just before he passed out had made Kyle sick to his stomach. There had been no way to check on his friend's condition, though, as the guards had been placed and Kyle hauled physically from Reid's side moments after.

Now the investigator slithered along on his side, hoping against all hope that he was going slow enough to mask any noise he might be making—shifting dead leaves, pulling up grass, sliding rough cloth and shoe soles against the ground, alerting someone. The yards seemed endless, and at about five yards Kyle stopped, trying to use the waning firelight to gauge the watchfulness of Reid's sentinels. One of the bikers was slumped over, dead to the world as far as the deaf man could tell. The other was alert, but falling farther and farther into sleep. Kyle picked up his bound hands, pulling himself ever so slowly towards his friend. A hard look at Reid's midsection showed ribs expanding and contracting, bringing a sigh of relief to the investigator.

_Just a couple of inches,_ Kyle thought, praying he was being quiet._ Just a little more…_

Finally Kyle's fingers touched onto Reid's thin shirt. Cautiously, he poked the agent, trying to rouse him. _Come on, Reid,_ Kyle willed. _Wake up._

The still form began to flinch, and immediately Kyle put a hand to his friend's mouth; a silent signal to stay quiet. Blue eyes focused into disoriented brown ones, and the longer it took for those eyes to focus back the more nervous and edgy Kyle got. The slightly wakeful guard had stumbled over a few feet just before Kyle attempted to reach Reid, but the sounds of his prisoner waking up might easily bring him back. Soon Reid was among the living, his warm eyes now filled with both pain and confusion.

--Trust me,-- Kyle signed. –We have to go, now.-- The force Kyle put on the last word made things impeccably clear to the agent. Looking at Reid, Kyle asked, --Can you get up?—

A hand wiggled in a _maybe_ fashion. The look of pain on Reid's face told Kyle enough.

--Slowly,-- Kyle urged. –We have to go.--

Reid slowly pulled himself closer to Kyle's hunched frame.

--We'll have to crawl towards the woods,-- Kyle explained. After seeing Reid's look of disbelief, he quickly added, --I know, it's a long way. We'll have to go slowly and hope that everyone's too stoned or asleep to notice.—

The look of disbelief didn't falter. Reid's eyes looked as though he were being asked to suffer a very slow Iron Maiden torture. Kyle guessed that with his collected wounds and bruises, his plan could well be similar to that. Nevertheless, Reid wriggled himself up onto his side, using his own bound hands to pull himself back towards the treeline some hundred yards back.

Kyle stayed close to his friend, at times pulling both himself and Reid closer to their goal by fractions of an inch. There were a few moments the pair were forced to stop and rest, but Kyle kept a close eye on their surroundings to check for trouble. So far, none had presented itself.

_We just might do this,_ the Virginian thought. _Once we get in the woods, we can get lost for a while, hopefully avoid these assholes finding…._

The investigator's train of thought faltered as he saw a large, dark shadow blocking the bright starlight. A pair of bright eyes flickered nervously as the last people he wanted to see towered over both his and Reid's prone frames.

------

Emily couldn't sleep. After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, she gave up on the idea of rest and made her way towards the motel lobby, where she hoped she could coax a cup of coffee out of a machine of some sort.

The lobby machine was in surprisingly good order, giving the agent the cup of liquid refreshment she desperately craved, but as she searched for a seat her eyes took in a sight she rarely ever saw—the sight of Chase Davis sleeping, her arms curled around her and her knees drawn up to her chest. As Emily took the padded armchair next to her, the younger woman woke. "Couldn't sleep, huh?" she asked.

"Nah," Emily said, sipping her coffee. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"Wasn't really sleeping," her friend admitted. "Too worried."

"Hey, Kyle knows what he's doing out there," the profiler tried to reassure. "He's had a great teacher."

The smile on Chase's face was halfhearted. "Nice to hear, but still…"

"I know. I'm just as worried about Reid."

Green eyes took on a pensive look. "There's just so much we don't know, Em," Chase said. "They could be anywhere."

"Gail says that they like open parks, campsites," Emily replied. "Could be that they've holed up in one for the night."

"Or they could be flying down the road at a hundred miles an hour."

Emily shrugged, sipping her coffee some more. "There's that too."

"Ollie's a wreck," Chase confided. "He's taking this worse than I am, and that's saying something."

"He's worried about both of them."

"I had to come out here, he was thrashing around so much." Chase sighed. "I'm worried he's having a flashback."

"Miami?"

"What else?"

Emily tipped her cup for another sip, then stopped abruptly. "Wait. You said, 'you had to come out here…'"

Crimson flushed brightly into the investigator's face. "Yeah." She wiggled her hand a little. "Ollie's idea."

"So soon?"

"Feeling's been there longer than that."

Emily smirked a little. It had been there since Pennsylvania, at the Chinese consulate grounds. "What does his doctor say about all this?"

Chase leaned in a little closer. "Personally, I think he likes the idea. Ollie's taking control of the relationship, taking steps to overcome what happened in Miami. For now, it's with me. Maybe it won't end up that way, but who knows? I'm taking it as it comes."

"And?"

The young woman smirked. "Can't complain."

Emily laughed, then settled back into armchair with her coffee. "So, how far along has it…"

"Em. Don't get too crazy." Chase followed the agent's lead, settling back into her own chair. "I hear Hotch wants the group to try to get over the Canadian border."

"What?"

"Something about keeping a low profile on our boys' abductions. Garcia's putting the word out to provincial police and RCMP, but I think he's hoping that the Canadians will detain the group at the border—Reid and Kyle included. Save us a lot of time if they did."

"And they might kill them."

Chase sighed. "I know. I don't like it. It's a two-pronged affair, now---getting Reid and Kyle back in one piece, and busting this operation. I guess Morgan and JJ are still working on who the group's distributor is, but it's slow going."

Emily tried to settle down again, but it was no use. Her mind kept floating back to the gunfight at the bar, and seeing the bikes take off with their friends in tow. "I could have shot out one of the tires," she murmured.

"And probably killed one of our boys in the process," Chase reasoned. "I mean, I thought the same thing, but the accident it would have caused…"

"Yeah."

"I hope Hotch knows what he's doing," Chase said, sighing loudly, "because this is one time I'm out of ideas. I'm putting a few feelers out to some contacts in DEA, and forwarding the numbers to Garcia in the morning, but so far I'm stumped."

"That's the thing," Emily wondered. "Why Alaska?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Now that school is over, I will have more time to spend on this little project. :) Still geeked over being published in a magazine and craving 'Deadliest Catch', though...

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**

"Well, well, well," Boss Salvador voice declared, floating overtop Reid's prone form that lay on the solid earth below. "Seems someone just can't learn their lesson, huh?"

Footsteps gathered through the wet grass as shifting weights brought the band of bikers around both the profiler and the investigator they'd caught. Reid could make out a worrisome grin flashing on several of the men's faces as they stared down at him. The young agent tried to put together something to spit as a comeback, but his mind was too muddled with exhaustion and pain from the earlier beating he had endured.

"And look here, Boss," another voice rang out. Reid recognized it as Floyd's. "Seems Chaplin here doesn't care for the hospitality either." Leaves and grass scrunched and shuffled as Kyle was dragged to his feet; the investigator resisted the action with every movement Reid could make out. The large biker held Kyle close, keeping one arm firmly set against Kyle's windpipe.

"Might have to make them more 'appreciative,' don't you think?" another biker jeered.

Reid stared in horror, trying to fight off the hands trying to drag him off the ground as well. "Leave him alone!" he called out, trying to put force into a voice that carried like a whisper. Fatigue was winning its battle over the agent, though Reid put up a valiant struggle.

"Look, the fed wants to save his little friend here," another biker laughed. The dopey grin and slur to the man's voice told Reid instantly that he was higher than a kite.

"Should've thought of that before he tried to run," Jake said firmly, a malevolent glint twinkling in the man's eyes. Turning to Boss Salvador, the second-in-command said, "_Now_ can I have some fun with 'em?"

"No," the Mexican barked, silencing the entire group. "Not that way."

"Not going to be of any use to us, Boss," Jake tried to argue, pushing a few of his inebriated 'brothers' aside. "You see there? _That's _what's going to happen, we keep 'em."

Reid stared over at Kyle, who was trying to inhale as much air as Floyd's grip would allow. The younger man kept trying to pry the biker's arm away from his throat, but his attempts thus far had been fruitless. The agent tried to take a step over towards his friend, but the pair of bikers holding him upright and immobile made that nearly impossible. "You'll kill him," Reid cried, his voice still thick from fatigue and exertion. "And then…then what?"

"Then we dump his ass and find us a girl," Jake argued.

In his near delirium, Reid actually chuckled. "Oh, you'll find a girl, all right. One who'll give you more trouble than I apparently am." The thought of Chase Davis going toe-to-toe with these men made for an amusing image, and a small smile came unbidden to his face. "You want an easier target? Take me."

"No one dies tonight," Boss Salvador said firmly. "Floyd, let him up."

Cursing, the biker did as he was told. Kyle fell to the ground in a heap, gasping in air like a fish out of water.

The Mexican then strode over to where Reid stood, pulling himself to his full height. The biker's eyes came level with Reid's nose. "Let me make this very clear, _ese_," the man growled. "You will behave, or I'll let the boys have their 'fun' with Chaplin there early—and you'll watch every second. By the time they're done, you'll wish I'd let them kill you both."

A soft puff of air shot out of Reid's nostrils. "I've seen worse."

An evil laugh pierced the darkness. "No, _ese_, you haven't. Not like this."

* * *

Oliver woke with a start. His hair was slick with sweat pouring off his scalp, and he sucked in air so fast he felt as though he was suffocating. "Oh, God," he mumbled, turning towards the right of the king-size bed. "Chasie, I don't think I'm…"

The words met with silence. The space next to him was empty.

Heaving an enormous sigh, Oliver rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and checked the time. It was only after three in the morning. _Still too early to get out there and look for them,_ the investigator thought. _But there's no way I'm going to get any more sleep…_

Oliver slipped out from under the covers, pulled on his jeans and a shirt, and stepped out into the hall. The night sky shone through the glass door at the end of the corridor, and the bright full moon shone invitingly. Carefully, Oliver made his way towards the door when he heard the soft click of a lock falling back into place. A figure backed into the hallway, nearly knocking the investigator off his feet.

"Oh!" Gail said, trying to temper her surprised exclamation. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize…"

"I couldn't sleep," Oliver admitted.

"Me either. I keep thinking about what might be happening to your friends out there." A shudder crawled visibly up the young woman's spine.

"You want to go for a walk?" Oliver offered. "Usually helps put me back to sleep."

"Okay."

The pair made their way out into the bright moonlit night, taking in the sounds of wind rustling through the trees and the occasional flash of headlights coming down the lonely highway. "Gail," Oliver began, trying to find the right words to form his query. "What kinds of things did they…um…did they _do_ to you, out there?"

Gail stopped in mid-step. She was silent a long moment. "Mostly things your friends won't have to worry about too much," she said slowly. Then she hesitated. "There was this one guy, though…"

"What about him?"

"Well, I mean, he was a boor, like all of them, but I got the impression he was, ah, 'playing for the other side,' if you know what I mean?"

Oliver nodded. "I was afraid of that."

"Why?"

The investigator slid down onto a nearby picnic table. "Let's just say we've had a run-in with those types before."

"Ah." The look on Gail's face told the investigator she didn't quite understand.

"Some months back there was a really bad case involving white slavers. Couple of us kind of got…'involved' more than we would have liked. It was just a really bad experience."

The quizzical look cleared from the young woman's face. "I think I get it." She heaved a sigh. "I used to think that's what would happen to me."

"I'm sorry?"

"When those assholes would drag me around, they would do one of three things—snort lines, get drunk, and, um…" Gail's face blushed a strong shade of crimson. "Yeah, well…"

"Go on."

"Mostly it was that one guy; Tall George, he called himself. By the end it was like every other night. I managed to keep from having to get stoned, but _there_ I wasn't as lucky. The thing was, I could tell a few of the other bikers kind of had their eye on me too."

"You worried you'd be traded for some other favor?" Oliver asked.

"Um…yeah." A sharp exhale sounded from Gail's lungs. "Especially…"

"Yes?"

Gail shook her head. "Thing is, they apparently just got a new supplier from up north, near Alaska somewhere. A few of the bikers were going on about it early on. Something about the old supplier being taken over or some such. These guys…I mean, they scare the living shit out of everyone they cross, but this time _they_ seemed a little spooked. That Tall George, he seemed the most spooked of all. Kept telling me if the counts were low or money was lost, he'd try to trade me as a way to settle up."

Oliver let out a low whistle. "Shit."

"I know. He didn't seem keen on the idea of giving me up, but I know deep down he'd have done it to save his own ass."

"Gail, did you ever hear a name for this supplier?" Oliver wondered.

A headshake served as a reply. "No. Just that he was a scary dude and that they were meeting him in Fairbanks. Doesn't mean he's from there, though; just that that's where they were meeting him."

"Fairbanks? You're sure?"

"Positive. There's only like three big cities in Alaska, and that's one of them. I thought at the time it was a good choice—a big place in a rural-type state to lay low and conduct business."

Gail was surprised when Oliver reached out and gave the younger woman a giant hug. "You may have just saved a couple of lives," he said as he hurried down the corridor.

"Wow," Gail said to herself as she returned to her room. "Who'd have thought?"

* * *

The remainder of the night the two captive enforcement officials spent sitting upright, bound with thin rope to the base of a giant tree. Kyle tried to keep from dozing off, his head lolling onto his shoulder at several points, but the first rays of pink and purple sunrise managed to sparkle into his tired blue eyes. Blinking rapidly, he shook himself awake and tried to twist his carefully tied frame towards his friend and companion. Long fingers poked at an unresponsive figure, trying to rouse it from its much needed sleep.

_Come on, Reid, wake up,_ Kyle thought to himself. He didn't want to attract attention from his overeager guards that were milling about, some in places Kyle couldn't see. _Don't you pass out on me…not here…_

Finally the once-still frame began to move slowly, stirring to life as though it was trying to work on half-dead batteries. A small wave served as a 'good morning,' seeing as how both Reid's and Kyle's arms were secured tightly against the trunk of the tree. Their hands, still shackled, were in front of them, able to only move about an inch in any direction.

'What now?' Kyle mouthed, hoping the lack of vibrations in his voice box meant his voice wasn't betraying him to his captors.

Reid shrugged. 'There's at least five people watching us right now. I think they're looking for a reason.'

_Damn,_ Kyle thought. _Just what we need…more problems._

Suddenly two men strode over to where the investigators unwillingly sat, tossing something into their laps. Kyle managed to catch his; it looked like half a stick of summer sausage. Too hungry to care where it had come from, he began to devour it. The heavy spice of the meat raced through the investigator's tongue and palate, causing him to stop and catch his breath a couple of times, but before long, the small portion was gone. Kyle tapped a 'W' sign on his lips, giving his keepers the sign for the water he so desperately craved. No one seemed to notice. Looking next to him, they seemed more interested in Reid—or rather, what Reid seemed to be saying.

Kyle tried to get a good look at his friend's lips, attempting to read them, but Reid's longish hair covered his lips in parts, making it a little more difficult. Looking at the men before them, Kyle could tell that they were getting more and more perturbed with Reid the longer he spoke. Finally, they snatched the hunk of sausage from the profiler, eating it themselves right in front of him as they walked off.

Puzzled, Kyle knocked his friend in the shoulder. –What the hell were you thinking?— he signed, a few of his words being mangled by the forced position of his hands. –You want to starve to death?—

Reid turned and looked at Kyle head-on. 'I don't know what they might have put in that. I can't take the chance.'

The sentence hit the investigator like a ton of bricks. Wide eyed, he too began to wonder if the meat had been 'tainted' or not. With the amount of spice it had had, there was no way to be sure. Scared, Kyle turned to look at his friend with a pained expression.

'Nothing you can do about it now,' Reid said. 'I just hope it was clean.'

_Me too,_ Kyle thought, the thought of eating cocaine or heroin settling hard like a weight in his stomach.

'They use it sometimes to stave off hunger, make people eat less,' Reid explained. 'Why junkies are so skinny all the time.'

'Wouldn't that be a trick—getting us hooked just to cause more pain and torture,' Kyle mouthed.

'Wouldn't put it past them,' Reid replied.

A kick in the shins caused Kyle to look up at his assailant. Boss Salvador loomed overtop of the seated men, carrying two large garment bags across his shoulders.

"A present," he said. "Need you two to look presentable."


	15. Chapter 15

**The plot thickens. Thanks to Special Paranoia for the beta!

* * *

**

"Pre…presentable?" Reid queried. The lack of sound sleep was beginning to take its toll.

Boss Salvador, however, paid the agent no mind. Tossing his head towards two of his men, the bikers walked over to the base of the tree with large knives at the ready.

Kyle's eyes widened. A short gasp of air escaped his lungs. His eyes locked on the four-inch blades. "No," he cried out, the word coming out as a sad, unintelligible warble. His shoulders began to tense, and his hands began to tremble slightly.

"Tell Chaplin to hold still, kid," Boss Salvador barked. "Can't go messing him up now."

Swallowing, Reid turned to face his companion. 'Kyle, hold still,' he mouthed, not wanting to waste his voice.

Terrified, the investigator became a statue. The long blades made quick work of the ropes that bound the pair to the tree base, allowing their hands to fall neatly into their laps. Above them, Boss Salvador produced a pair of thin silver keys, handing them to the bikers working on their prisoners. "Hold 'em out," he chuffed, kicking Kyle a little to make the younger man look at him. Once released, both Reid and Kyle began to rub their sore joints and inspect the bruises that mottled their wrists.

"Get up," the bike leader snapped. Slowly, the pair did as they were told. "Now," the little man said, pulling one of the garment bags from behind his shoulder and leveling it with Reid's frame. The clear bag held a simple black three piece suit—one that put the profiler very much in mind of Hotch's usual choice in clothing. "Hmm," Boss Salvador mused. "Might be a little small."

"Small? Boss, you high? There ain't nothing _to_ that kid," one of the bikers, a man who called himself Crazy Louie, cackled.

"No, I ain't high," the biker snapped. "This's gotta look right, or else." Pulling the pants out of the bag, Boss Salvador held them up to where Reid stood. "Put 'em on," he said simply, tossing the garment at the agent.

"What?"

"You heard me. Put 'em on." The glower on the biker's face was not one to reckon with.

Reid's eyes danced around the open clearing, now milling about with a multitude of bikers starting to wake. "Where?"

"Fine. Boys, take Chaplin here. Seems the kid needs a lesson in taking orders."

Crazy Louie and his friend grabbed Kyle's arms a little too eagerly, wide grins plastered across their faces. "Wait!" Reid cried out, holding one hand out in submission. "All right."

The grip on Kyle never lessened as Reid began to loosen his belt. The profiler cringed as his jeans plummeted to the earth, exposing the pale stick legs he kept covered for just that reason. A few catcalls and whistles cropped up as the rest of the gang discovered the 'show' and came closer for a look.

"Well, look at that," Jake cackled, obviously high. "Maybe the fed _is_ a girl, after all. Nice legs," he added, grinning evilly in Reid's direction.

Reid's face grew a violent shade of crimson. Taking careful breaths to control his nerves, he kicked his jeans to one side and hastily pulled on the suit pants. He looked down to find that at least a good half-inch of ankle was showing.

"Little taller than I thought," Boss Salvador remarked. "They'll do, though. Now for the rest."

"It'll fit," the agent said, his voice wavering.

A flicker of an eye came from the gang leader, and a second later Reid heard Kyle crying out in pain. Heavy breaths escaped the agent's lungs as he quickly put the rest of the suit on. Unlike the pants, the dress shirt and jacket fit just fine, falling to rest in almost all the right places. The dress shirt was a little big, but not by much.

"Good job, Tiny," Boss Salvador said to one of the men, a large linebacker of a biker who towered over Reid. "Good eye. Now for Chaplin."

Reid looked at the other bag, which held an odd assortment of clothes inside of it. A leather vest came out, as did a dark pair of jeans and a red t-shirt. A pair of boots also accompanied the outfit; the kind that would stop mid-calf, heavily embroidered and trimmed in stainless steel.

"Tell him to put those on," Boss Salvador demanded.

Kyle looked at his friend, his face clearly showing his confusion. –He wants you to put them on,- Reid signed, happy to once again have control over his limbs.

The confused look turned angry. –Why?—

Suddenly two of the milling bikers snatched Reid up, their strong grip preventing the profiler from moving. "I can still break him," Boss Salvador said, looking Kyle directly in the face.

Kyle's anger simmered, but he took the unwanted clothes. He quickly tossed on the outfit, noticing that the shirt was at least a size too big and that the boots were so beyond his size that he nearly fell over trying to take a step. As Kyle struggled to maintain himself from his wobble, he could see the faces of the bikers laughing, their eyes full of malevolent mirth.

"It'll do," Boss Salvador said. "Not like he'll be walking far in that getup."

"Wow, Boss," one of the bikers called out. "Chaplin there looks almost…_normal_."

"That's the idea." A sharp whistle escaped the bike leader's throat, and another biker walked over, pulling at the cuffs of his own brand-new suit.

"Hey, Lenny," Jake called out. "Not bad. Hot date?"

"Shut the hell up," Lenny growled, rubbing his chin absently. Reid noticed the trail of razor marks that littered the man's extremely pale chin. "I didn't pick this."

"Only one of us who looks respectable enough for pig work, Lenny," Boss Salvador told him. "You and the kid should be able to pull this off."

"Pull what off?" Reid asked.

The whole group began to howl with laughter. "Gettin' us across the border, kid," one of the bikers managed to eke out. "What else?"

_So _that's_ their plan,_ the agent thought. _Pose as an extradition party…_ The agent shook his head a little, almost impressed with the group's level of thinking.

"Okay, now take it off," Boss Salvador said. "Can't be gettin' the good clothes dirty."

The speed at which Reid and Kyle changed back into their own clothes could have set a land speed record. Reid blushed as the bikers continued to catcall and whistle as the pair changed. Finally, Reid heaved a sigh of relief when the group began to disperse, wandering off in the direction of their bikes.

-Finally,- the agent said, looking at his friend. –Maybe now they'll leave us alone.—

Kyle nodded, but his face cringed as he saw a familiar figure approach. There were still a small number of bikers milling not terribly far from where the pair stood, and the sight of the steel bracelets etched heavily onto Kyle's mind.

"Come on," the investigator said, grabbing Reid by the wrist and starting edge backwards towards the shelter of the standing pines behind them. Blue eyes tracked the movements of the biker gang's leader, and the scowl the man's face held did not look promising. Neither did the quick strides the man seemed to take, eating up the distance between predator and prey. Kyle could see Boss Salvador moving his lips, but for once in his life, the deaf man didn't care to know what might be being said.

_Just a little more,_ the Virginian thought. _Just a little…_

The thought was interrupted quickly by something solid that appeared behind him, pinning Kyle and Reid to the patch of ground where they stood. The sight of hands gripping his shoulders made the investigator struggle and angrily thrash about, trying to release himself. "Don't," he cried, hoping his voice was clear.

Boss Salvador's hand connected sharply with Kyle's face. "Hold still," he said, yanking on the younger man's chin. Blue eyes locked with the biker's own, a fire burning within both of them. Next to Kyle, Reid began passively struggling against his captors by letting himself fall limp. It took three of the bikers to pick the stubborn profiler off the ground and secure the cuffs around his wrists. He too received a strike to the face as the ire of Boss Salvador sprang forth.

"Now get your asses back on the bikes," the group leader growled, pointing an authoritative finger towards the oversized machines. "Long trip to the border, and we'll ride straight through if need be to get there by tonight."

Both Kyle and Reid looked at each other, concern spread over their faces. _A night crossing would give the group more cover,_ Reid thought. He could tell by the look Kyle gave him that his friend had come to the same conclusion. _Which means they might just slip over the border unnoticed…hopefully the team's gotten word to the RCMP about what's going on and there'll be help before long…_


End file.
